
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. Copyright No. 

Shelf_._.5i^\\0C| 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




From Chaucer to Arnold 



TYPES OF LITERARY ART 



IN PROSE AND VERSE 



AN INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH IITERATURE 
WITH PREFACE AND NOTES 

BY 

ANDREW J. GEORGE, A.M. 

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH, HIGH SCHOOL, NEWTON, MASS. 

Editor of Wordsworth's " Prelude," " The Shorter 

Poems of Milton," " The Select Poems 

OF Burns," etc. 



" Books, we know, 
Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
Our pastime and our happiness will grow." 

Wordsworth 



THE MACMILLAN company' 

LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1898 

All eights reserved 



2n 



1896. 







13976 



Copyright, 1898, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 




TWoeapifSRiCfeiVED 




J. S. Gushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith 
Norwood Mass. U.S. A- 



r^ 



TO THE PUPILS OF THE NEWTON HIGH SCHOOL, 
WHOSE SYMPATHY AND APPRECIATION HAVE MADE 
MY WORK A DELIGHT, I INSCRIBE THIS VOLUME. 

A. J. G. 



Truth is within ourselves : it takes no rise 
From outward things, whate'er you may believe : 
There is an inmost centre in us all, 
"Where truth abides in fulness ; and around. 
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 
This perfect, clear perception — which is truth; 
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 
Blunts it and makes it error : and ' to know ' 
Rather consists in opening out a way 
Whence the imprisoned splendor may escape, 
Than in affording entry for a light 
Supposed to be without. 

Browning's Paracelsus. 



PREFACE 

" Image the whole, then execute the parts, — 
Fancy the fabric 
Quite, ere you build." 

The present volume is the result of long experience in a 
large school which combines the features of a Latin and an 
English High School. It illustrates the work in preparation 
for the study of the great authors, in verse and prose, who 
have made the most distinctive contribution to English 
literature and life. When the pupil has gained a general 
view of the field of English literature, a speaking acquaint- 
ance with the authors, and an idea of the principles of liter- 
ary evolution which this book reveals, he is ready for 
extended study of those artists whose work is central and 
formative in each period, the great classics of our literature. 
While the book is thus intended to be an introduction 
through types — only a means to the end of forming perma- 
nent literary friendships — it is fairly representative of the 
best to be found in English literary art from Chaucer to 
Arnold, and' hence it has a value of its own. 

The annotation is confined to the purpose of naturally 
leading the pupil to look for those principles which are 
fundamental, such as will guide him into broader fields of 
literature, history, and criticism — happy pastures in which 
he may range at will. This I believe is the great end for 
which we should strive in the teaching of English, and it is 

vii 



viii PREFACE 

quite as important in the college preparatory work as in 
that of the general course. 

The volume is thus a natural outcome of the method and 
spirit of our work in the Newton High School. It is pre- 
pared to meet a need in our own course, and also in 
response to requests of many teachers of EngUsh who 
have become interested in that course, and desire to have 
the means of following it in its essential features. It does 
not offer any royal road to appreciation of literature, only 
the very simple and natural one of thoughtful and sympa- 
thetic reading, in an atmosphere of wise passiveness. 

While purposely keeping the matter of the history of lit- 
erature in the background, I have given in the Introduction 
and Notes a few principles which it is hoped may prove 
stimulative. Literary education is of the heart rather than 
of the head, a process of spiritual apprehension and assimi- 
lation; and hence Histories of Literature are of Httle use 
until enthusiasm is developed. A genuine enthusiasm will 
rapidly assimilate the spiritual content of a work of genius, 
whereby alone there can be any genuine growth. 

" Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things forever speaking, 
That nothing of itself will come, 
But we must still be seeking? " 

Limited space has necessitated the exclusion of some 
whose work I would have included. 

A. J. G. 

Brookline, Mass., June, 1898. 



INTRODUCTION 

In the study of great movements in the history of our 
Hterature we should observe certain principles. We should 
not attempt to place rigid boundaries to these movements ; 
we should view hterature as an organic whole, — the revela- 
tion of the complex hfe which created it. As the soil, 
atmosphere and general environment determine in a great 
degree the growth of the plant and the character of its fruit, 
so every experience through which a nation passes deter- 
mines the kind of literature and art it will produce. It is 
natural that the literature of a new people should have its 
Formative Period, a period in which soil is being prepared 
by a great variety of experiences. The student should, 
therefore, have some knowledge of the forces at work in 
young England which evolved the matin song of our lan- 
guage in Chaucer. The contact with the Romans through 
war; the Roman influence which came with the introduction 
of Christianity ; the establishment of the school of Csedmon 
at Whitby and of Alfred at Winchester; the destruction 
wrought in the literature of the north by inroads of the 
Danes ; the refining influence of the Normans, and the 
splendid energy of the native tongue by which it rose to a 
position of power and beauty until it broke forth in the full- 
throated ease of Chaucer, in the poetry of Hfe, love and duty : 
these are distinctly formative forces. 

In England's contact with the Italian Revival, a contact 
due to the attraction which the New Learning had for the 



X IN TR on UC TION 

younger generation, we have the beghming of the Period 
of Italian Influence introduced by Wyatt and Surrey. It 
is this element which gives the new direction to art under 
EHzabeth. The invention of printing, the expansion in 
material resources, the spirit of adventure and discovery, 
and the religious spirit developed by the Enghsh Bible, 
which fostered the desire for independence, all contributed 
to the formation of the rich and varied literature of the 
period. 

In the period intervening between Elizabeth and the 
Restoration we find the great name of Milton, who may be 
called the last of the Elizabethans ; for while his work reveals 
the sublime dignity born of Puritanism, it is distinguished for 
the charm of childhood and grace of youth which charac- 
terized the Renaissance. It is the happy union of art and 
faith. The forces against which Puritanism arrayed itself 
triumphed in the Restoration, and the new ideas in church 
and state became supreme. French models in literature and 
life emanated from the court. Under Elizabeth there was a 
healthy simpHcity, and the poet wrote with his eye upon the 
subject; but now there was constrained and formal etiquette, 
and the poet wrote with his eye upon style. Subjects, too, 
changed. We have now such as appeal to the intellect 
rather than to the whole nature, and poetry becomes didac- 
tic, satiric, philosophical. What was mere spirit is now mere 
form. Poetry was seized by the wing and confined within 
the bounds of the rhymed couplet. If spiritual east winds 
blew and no great poet spoke out, we must not forget that 
this period oi French Infliiejice gave us splendid specimens 
of graceful and sinewy prose. The wits who gathered in 
the coffee houses to discuss politics, literature, and social 
manners, furnished the material for the essay, and it in turn 
gave rise to the newspaper and periodical. The essay 



INTR OD UC TION xi 

expanded into the novel of adventure or society, while the 
orator reached his constituents through the pamphlet, and 
the critics levelled their guns from behind the pages of the 
quarterlies. 

During this efflorescence of prose the great principle of 
equality for which Milton and Vane had stood began to take 
root in the soil of France, producing that tremendous up- 
heaval known as the French Revolution. Life in England 
had become deeper, and man's nature sought the wholesome 
atmosphere of faith and action. The result was the rise of 
Methodism, and the splendid work of Howard and Wilber- 
force ; Pitt's reign of expansion saw the rise of democracy ; 
a republic was established in America. It is not surprising, 
therefore, that such an awakening should be accompanied 
by an equal vigor in the realm of poetry. Gray goes to the 
little churchyard ; Goldsmith to the obscure country village ; 
Cowper muses by the languid Ouse, while song springs full 
formed from the rugged soil upturned by the rustic Plough- 
man on the Ayrshire hills, and the Modern Period has begun, 
the mission of which is to teach how verse may build a 
princely throne on humble truth. With Coleridge are devel- 
oped new ideas of criticism ; with Wordsworth the new 
poetry wins even against the accredited critics of the school 
of Dryden and Pope. 

" A hundred years ere he to manhood came, 

Song from celestial heights had wandered down, 
Put off her robe of sunlight, dew and flame, 

And donned a modish dress to charm the town. 

Thenceforth she but festooned the porch of things; 

Apt at life's lore, incurious 'what hfe meant. 
Dextrous of hand, she struck her lute's few strings; 

Ignobly perfect, barrenly content. 



Xll INTR OD UCTION 

The age grew sated with her sterile wit. 

Herself waxed weary on her loveless throne. 
Men felt life's tide, the sweep and surge of it, 

And craved a living voice, a natural tone. 

For none the less, though song was but half true, 
The world lay common, one abounding theme. 

Man joyed and wept, and fate was ever new, 
And love was sweet, life real, death no dream. 

In sad, stern voice the rugged scholar-sage 
Bemoaned his toil unvalued, youth uncheered. 

His numbers wore the vesture of the age, 

But, 'neath it beating, the great heart was heard. 

From dewy pastures, uplands sweet with thyme, 
A virgin breeze freshened the jaded day. 

It wafted Collins' lonely vesper-chime, 

It breathed abroad the frugal note of Gray. 

It fluttered here and there, nor swept in vain 
The dusty haunts where futile echoes dwell. 

Then, in a cadence soft as summer rain, 

And sad from Auburn voiceless, drooped and fell. 

It drooped and fell, and one 'neath northern skies, 
With southern heart, who tilled his father's field, 

Found Posey a-dying, bade her rise 

And touch quick nature's hem and go forth healed. 

On life's broad plain the ploughman's conquering share 
Upturned the fallow lands of truth anew. 

And o'er the formal garden's trim parterre 
The peasant's team a ruthless furrow drew. 

Bright was his going forth, but clouds ere long 

Whelmed him; in gloom his radiance set, and those 

Twin morning stars of our new century's song, 
Those morning stars that sang together, rose. 



INTRODUCTION xiii 

In elvish speech the Dreamer told his tale 
Of marvellous oceans swept by fateful wings. 

The Seer strayed not from earth's human pole, 
But the mysterious face of common things 

He mirrored as the moon in Rydal Mere 

Is mirrored, when the breathless night hangs blue : 

Strangely remote she seems and wondrous near, 
And by some nameless difference born anew."i 

On the splendor of literature and life at the century's mid- 
day, and the tender beauty of its early gloaming, we need 
not dwell, as the forces which were potent in creating that 
splendor and beauty are famihar to all. Through the puis- 
sant voice of Carlyle, the beautifully simple faith of New- 
man, and the noble passion of Ruskin ; through the imperial 
note of Tennyson, the manly vigor of Browning, the strength 
and grace of Arnold, we have come to know the mighty 
impulse which has moved life onward in its noblest aim. 

'The other harmony' of English prose was developed 
side by side with that of verse, and like it has periods of 
growth. Beginning in the early days of English Christianity 
in codes of laws, it passes naturally into the Chronicle of 
Alfred, and the translations of the Bible, which are specimens 
of vigorous, direct, and often beautiful style in a highly in- 
flected language. This style reaches its culmination in the 
tenth century, just before the Conquest, and is properly 
styled by Professor Earle the Classic Period, or period of 
full inflection. 

A change was wrought by the Conquest, in that the pat- 
tern was no longer the classic Latin, but the modern French. 
While the classic English was cultivated still in the seats of 
learning, there was being developed a popular dialect which 

1 William Watson. 



XIV INTR OD UC riON 

resulted in the formation of a new style — partly French and 
yet typically English — in Sir John Maundevile' s Voiage and 
Travaile, and John Wiclifs tracts. This style culminated 
in the Paston Letters, Malory's Morte d' Arthur and Sidney's 
Arcadia. During these five centuries inflections were to a 
great extent lost ; the vocabulary was increased by the addi- 
tion of words of Romance origin which came through the 
colloquial French. In the fifteenth century, for the first time, 
EngHsh became the language of legislative statutes. This 
may be called the second culmination, or the National Period, 
when English prose became essentially what it is to-day. 

In the closing years of the reign of Elizabeth, years of 
splendor at home and triumph abroad, England became the 
nation of a single book — the Bible : this is of the greatest 
importance in the history of English prose. In the sixteenth 
century translation and revision of the Scriptures began 
with WiUiam Tyndale, the father of the English Bible, 
and in 1611 scholarly divines produced the Authorized 
Version — in a language of Latin grace and English vigor. 
This book, clothed in the language of Shakespeare, and en- 
throned in the home which Puritanism had created, became 
the school of every man and woman of English speech. It 
retained the choice Latinity of Hooker, but this was bal- 
anced by the healthful vernacular. These two elements 
have remained in our English prose, the one predominating 
in Milton, Johnson, Burke, Gibbon and De Quincey ; the 
other in Bunyan and Defoe. Perhaps the finest illustra- 
tion of the union of these two elements is in the prose 
of Ruskin, Newman and Arnold, which is characterized by 
distinction, lucidity, charm. 

If we are to add to this matchless treasure in verse and 
prose, we must first of all learn how to put it to usury in those 
activities which make for individual and national health. 



INTR on UC TION XV 

strength and beauty. New problems will arise and new 
temptations will beset our path, but they will be met most 
successfully by those who know the temper and spirit of our 
matchless inheritance in English literary art and faith — its 
power to form, sustain and console. The spirit of noble en- 
thusiasm in whatever man has to do will result in " art by 
the people, for the people, a joy to the maker and the user." 
A spirit of noble enthusiasm is the revelation of great 
Hterature. Contact with this spirit will create power in us ; 
but this contact must be of soul with soul in that myste- 
rious realm to which the great artist conducts us by his 
compelling charm. We must lay aside our trappings of 
scientific method and intellectual analysis if we are to move 
with ease and delight in this sphere of beauty and truth — 
of impassioned quietude. Professor Woodrow Wilson, in 
speaking of the inability of the bungling methods of the 
schools to reach this soul of art through the " examination 
of forms, grammatical and metrical, which can be quite 
accurately determined and quite exhaustively catalogued," 
says : " We must not all, however, be impatient of this 
truant child of fancy. When the schools cast her out, she 
will stand in need of friendly succour, and we must train 
our spirits for the function. We must be freehearted in 
order to make her happy, for she will accept entertainment 
from no sober, prudent fellow who shall counsel her to mend 
her ways. She has always made light of hardship, and she 
has never loved or obeyed any, save those who were of her 
own mind, — those who were indulgent to her humors, 
responsive to her ways of thought, attentive to her whims, 
content with her ' mere ' charms. She already has her small 
following of devotees, like all charming, capricious mis- 
tresses. There are some still who think that to know her 
is better than a liberal education." 



xvi INTR OD UC TION 

In setting forth the idea which recognizes the principle 
of evolution in the study of EngUsh literature rather than 
that which emphasizes the individual unit, Mr. Edmund 
Gosse says : " We cling to the individuahst manner, to that 
intense eulogy which concentrates its rays on the particular 
object of notice and relegates all others to proportional 
obscurity. There are critics, of considerable acumen and 
energy, who seem to know no other mode of nourishing a 
talent or a taste than that which is pursued by the cultivators 
of gigantic gooseberries. They do their best to nip off all 
other buds, that the juices of the tree of fame may be 
concentrated on their favorite fruit. Such a plan may be 
convenient for the purposes of malevolence, and in earlier 
times our general ignorance of the principles of growth 
might well excuse it. But it is surely time that we should 
recognize only two criteria of literary judgment. The first 
is primitive, and merely clears the ground of rubbish ; it is. 
Does the work before us, or the author, perform what he 
sets out to perform with a distinguished skill in the direc- 
tion in which his powers are exercised ? If not, he interests 
the higher criticism not at all ; but if yes, then follows the 
second test : Where, in the vast and ever-shifting scheme 
of literary evolution, does he take his place, and in what 
relation does he stand, not to those who are least like him, 
but to those who are of his own kith and kin?" 



MESSAGES 

" Books do contain a progeny of life in them to be as active 
as that soul was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve 
as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intel- 
lect that bred them. ... As good almost kill a man as kill a 
good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's 
image ; but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself, kills 
the image of God as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a 
burden to the earth ; but a good book is the precious life-blood 
of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a 
life beyond life." — Milton. 

" Literature, so far as it is literature, is an ' apocalypse of Nature,' 
a revealing of the ' open secret.' It may well enough be named, 
in Fichtie's style, ' a continuous revelation of the Godlike in the 
Terrestrial and Common.' The Godlike does ever, in very truth, 
endure there ; is brought out, now in this dialect, now in that, 
with various degrees of clearness: All true gifted Singers and 
Speakers are, consciously or unconsciously, doing so. . . . All 
true singing is of the nature of worship ; as indeed all true 
working may be said to be, — whereof such singing is but the 
record, and fit melodious representation to us." — Carlyle. 

" In that great social organ which, collectively, we call Litera- 
ture, there may be distinguished two separate offices that may 
blend, and often do so, but capable, severally, of a severe insu- 
lation, and naturally fitted for reciprocal repulsion. There is, first, 
the literature of knowledge^ and, second, the literature oi power. 
The function of the first is to teach ; the function of the second 
is to move: the first is a rudder, the second an oar or sail. The 
first speaks to the mere discursive understanding -, the second 
speaks ultimately, it may happen, to the higher understanding or 



xviii MESSAGES 

reason, but always through affections of pleasure and sympathy. 
Remotely it may travel towards an object seated in what Lord 
Bacon calls dry light ; but, proximately, it does and must oper- 
ate, else it ceases to be a literature of power, in and through the 
hii7md YighX. which clothes itself in the mists and glittering iris of 
human passions, desires, and genial emotions." — De Quincey. 

" While the many use language as they find it, the man of 
genius uses it indeed, but subjects it withal to his own purposes, 
and moulds it according to his own peculiarities. The throng 
and succession of ideas, thoughts, feelings, imaginations, aspira- 
tions which pass within him, . . . his views of external things, 
his judgments upon life, manners, and history, the exercises of 
his wit, of his humor, of his depth, of his sagacity, all these in- 
numerable and incessant creations, the very pulsation and throb- 
bing of his intellect does he image forth, to all does he give utter- 
ance in a corresponding language, ... so that we might as well 
say that one man's shadow is another's as that the style of a 
really gifted mind can belong to any but himself It follows him 
about as his shadow." — Newman. 

" Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read that — 
that what you lose to-day you cannot gain to-morrow ? Will you go 
and gossip with your housemaid, or your stable boy, when you may 
talk with queens and kings ; or flatter yourselves that it is with 
any worthy consciousness of your own claims to respect that you 
jostle with the common crowd for entree here, and audience 
there, when all the while this eternal court is open to you, with 
its society wide as the world, multitudinous as its days, the 
chosen and the mighty, of every place and time? Into that you 
may enter always ; in that you may take fellowship and rank 
according to your wish : from that, once entered into it, you can 
never be outcast but by your own fault ; by your aristocracy 
of companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy will be 
assuredly tested." — Ruskin. 

" Culture does not try to teach down to the level of inferior 
classes ; it does not try to win them for this or that sect of its 



MESSAGES XIX 

own, with ready made judgements and watchwords. It seeks to 
do away with classes : to make the best that lias been thought 
and known in the world current everywhere ; to make all men 
live in an atmosphere of sweetness and light, where they may 
use ideas, as it uses them itself, freely, — nourished and not 
bound by them.'" — Matthew Arnold. 

" What is important, is not that the critic should possess a cor- 
rect abstract definition of beauty for the intellect, but a certain kind 
of temperament, the power of being deeply moved by the presence 
of beautiful objects. He will remember always that beauty exists 
in many forms. To him all periods, types, schools of taste, are 
in themselves equal. In all ages there have been some excellent 
workmen, and some excellent work done. The question he asks 
is always : In whom did the stir, the genius, the sentiment of the 
period find itself? where was the receptacle of its refinement, 
its elevation, its taste " .'' — Walter Pater. 

" The only knowledge that can really make us better is not of 
things and their laws, but of persons and their thoughts ; and I 
would rather have an hour's sympathy with one noble heart 
than read the law of gravitation through and through. To teach 
us what to love and what to hate, whom to honour and whom to 
despise, is the substance of all human training, and this is not to 
be learned from the magnet or the microscope, from insects born 
in galvanism, and light polarised in crystals, but only among the 
affairs of men ; from the rich records of the past, the strife of 
heroic and the peace of saintly souls, from great thoughts of 
great minds, and the sublime acts of indomitable conscience. 
The soul takes its complexion and its true port from the society 
in which it dwells. '■' — James Martineau. 

" We owe to books those general benefits which come from 
high intellectual action. Thus, 1 think, we often owe to them 
the perception of immortality. They impart sympathetic activity 
to the moral power. Go with mean people and you will think 
life is mean. Then read Plutarch, and the world is a proud 
place, peopled with men of positive quality, with heroes and dem^ 



XX MESSA GES 

gods standing around us, who will not let us sleep. They ad- 
dress the imagination: only poetry inspires poetry. They be- 
come the organic culture of the mind. ... Be sure, then, to read 
no mean books. Shun the spawn of the press on the gossip of 
the hour. Do not read what you shall learn, without asking, in 
the street and the train." — Emerson. 

" The world of the imagination is not the world of abstraction 
and nonentity, as some conceive, but a world formed out of chaos 
by a sense of the beauty that is in man and the earth on which he 
dwells. It is the realm of might be, our haven of refuge from the 
shortcomings and disillusions of life. It is, to quote Spenser, 
who knew it well — 

The world's sweet inn from care and wearisome turmoil. 

Do we believe, then, that God gave us in mockery this splendid 
faculty of sympathy with things that are a joy forever? For my 
part, I believe that the love and study of works of the imagina- 
tion is of practical utility in a country so profoundly material (or, 
as we like to call it, practical) in its leading tendencies as ours. 
The hunger after purely intellectual delights, the content with 
ideal possessions, cannot but be good for us in maintaining a 
wholesome balance of character and of the faculties." — J. R. 
Lowell. 

^' A true Classic, as I should like to hear it defined, is an author 
who has enriched the human mind, increased its treasure, and 
caused it to advance a step ; who has discovered some moral 
and not equivocal truth, or revealed some eternal passion in that 
heart where all seemed known and discovered ; who has ex- 
pressed his thought, observation, or invention, in no matter what 
form, only provided it be broad and great, refined and acute, 
sane and beautiful in itself; who has spoken to all in his own 
pecuhar style, a style which is found to be also that of the whole 
world, a style new and antique, contemporary with all time." — 
Sainte-Beuve. 

" For myself, I am inclined to think the most useful help to 
reading is to know what we should not read, what we can keep 



MESSAGES xxi 

out from that small cleared spot in the overgrown jungle of in- 
formation, the corner which we can call our ordered patch of 
fruit-bearing knowledge. . . . The true use of books is of such 
sacred value to us that to be simply entertained is to cease to be 
taught, elevated, inspired, by books. . . . Every book that we 
take up without a purpose is an opportunity lost of taking up a 
book with a purpose. ... To understand a great national poet, 
is to know other types of human civilisation in ways which a 
library of histories does not sufficiently teach. The great mas- 
terpieces of the world are thus, quite apart from the charm and 
solace they give us, the master instruments of a solid education." 
— Frederick Harrison. 

" Our prime object should be to get into living relation with a 
man ; and by his means, with the good forces of nature and human- 
ity which play in and through him . This aim condemns at once all 
reading for pride and vain-glory as wholly astray, and all reading 
for scholarship and specialised knowledge as partial and insuffi- 
cient. We must read not for these, but for Itfe ; we must read 
to live. Only let us bear in mind that in order to live our best 
life we do not chiefly need advice, direction, instruction (though 
these also we may put to use) : we need above all an access of 
power rightly directed. Of all our study the last end and aim 
should be to ascertain how a great writer or artist has served the 
life of man. ... If our study does not directly or indirectly 
enrich the life of man, it is but a drawing of vanity with cart- 
ropes, a weariness to the flesh, or at least a busy idleness." — 
Edward Dowden. 

" The highest end of the highest education is not anything 
which can be directly taught, but is the consummation of all 
studies. It is the final result of intellectual culture in the devel- 
opment of the breadth, serenity, and solidity of mind, and in the 
attainment of that complete self-possession which finds expres- 
sion in character. To secure this end one means above all is 
requisite which has strangely enough been greatly neglected in 
our schemes of education — namely the culture of the faculty of 
imagination. The studies that nourish the soul, that afford per- 



xxii MESS A GES 

manent resources of delight and recreation, that maintain ideals 
of conduct and develop those sympathies upon which the prog- 
ress and welfare of society depend are the studies that quicken 
and nourish the imagination and are vivified by it." — Charles 
Eliot Norton. 

" Literature in its essence is mere spirit, and you must experi- 
ence it rather than analyze it too formally. It is the door to 
nature and to ourselves. It opens our hearts to receive the ex- 
periences of great men and the conceptions of great races. . . . 
If this free people to which we belong is to keep its fine spirit, 
its perfect temper amidst affairs, its high courage in the face of 
difficulties, its wase temperateness, and wide-eyed hope, it must 
continue to drink deep and often from the old wells of English 
undefiled, quaff the keen tonic of its best ideals, keep its blood 
warm with all the great utterances of exalted purpose and pure 
principle of which its matchless literature is full. The great 
spirits of the past must command us in the tasks of the future. 
Mere literature will keep us pure and keep us strong." — Wood- 
row Wilson. 

" It is as undesirable as it is impossible to try to feed the minds 
of children only upon facts of observation or record. The im- 
mense product of the imagination in art and literature is a con- 
crete fact with which every educated human being should be 
made somewhat familiar, such products being a very real part of 
every individual's actual environment. . . . Do we not all know 
many people who seem to live in a mental vacuum — to whom 
we have great difiiculty in attributing immortality, because they 
apparently have so little life except that of the body? Fifteen 
minutes a day of good reading would give any one of this 
multitude a really human life. The uplifting of the democratic 
masses depends upon the implanting at schools of the taste for 
good reading." — Charles W. Eliot. 

"Literature rightly sifted and selected and rightly studied is 
not the mere elegant trifling that it is so often and so erroneously 
supposed to be, but a proper instrument for a systematic training 



MESSAGES xxiii 

of the imagination and sympathies, and a genial and varied 
moral sensibility. . . . The thing that matters most, both for 
happiness and for duty, is that we should strivs habitually to live 
with wise thoughts and right feelings. Literature helps us more 
than other studies to this most blessed companionship of wise 
thoughts and right feelings." — John Morley. 

"The quality which makes a reader master of the secret of 
books is primarily of the soul, and only secondarily of the 
mind ; and to feel the deepest and sweetest of our literature 
one must read with the heart. A book read with the mind 
only is skimmed ; true reading involves the imagination and 
the feelings. Those inner melodies which the heart of man 
has been singing to himself these thousands of years are audi- 
ble above all the tumult of the world if one has a place of silence, 
an hour of solitude, and a heart that has kept the freshness of 
its youth." — Hamilton W. Mabie. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE vii 

INTRODUCTION ix 

MESSAGES xvii 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340-1409) 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. Lines 1-528 .... i 

SIR THOMAS MALORY (Fl. 1470) 

Morte d'Arthur (King Arthur) : 

Of the Birth oj King Arthur and how he was chosen king . . 19 

Galahad and the Sword 28 

The histitution of the Quest 35 

JOHN LYLY (1553-1606) 

Alexander and Campaspe: Apelles' Song 40 

Sappho and Phao : Sappho's Song 40 

Midas : Pan's Song 4^ 

EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND : Euphues Glasse for Europe . . 42 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) 

Arcadia: Dedication 53 

Strephon and Clauis 54 

Pamela and Philoclea 5^ 

An Apologie for Poetrie: The Poet . . 60 

ASTROPHEL and StELLA 6$ 

BALLADS (?) 

Sir Patrick Spens • 68 

The Douglas Tragedy 72 

Waly, Waly 75 

Kinmont Willie 7^ 

Robin Hood rescuing the Widow's Three Sons 83 

Get up and bar the Door, O . . . = 87 

Bessie Bell and Mary Gray ^9 

XXV 



xxvi CONTENTS 

EDMUND SPENSER (1552-1599) pack 

The SHEniKARDS Calender: Januarie 90 

ASTROPHEL 93 V 

AmOKETTI : I, VII, XII, XXV, XXXIV, LXVII, LXXV lOI 

RICHARD HOOKER (i 554-1 600) 

The Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity: The Law of Nations . 105 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593) 

^ -r ,, f Act I Ill 

The Jew of Malta :^ , ^^ ^ ^ „ 

•' lAct H, Sc. I 128 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 130 

Hero and Leander : Leander's Triumph 131 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) 

o r XVIII, XXIX, XXX, XXXIII, XXXVIII, LX, lxvi, lxxxvii, ■) 

Sonnets: { \ 132 

I XCIII, XCIV, cm, CIV, cvi, cvii, cxvi, cxlvi, cxlviii J 

Under the greenwood tree. As You Like Lt, Act II, Sc. V . . 14I 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I. Tempest, Act V, Sc. I . . 141 

Come unto these yellow sands. Tempest, Act I, Sc. II . . . . 141 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind ! As Yotc Like Lt, Act 11, Sc. VII . 142 

Hark, hark ! the lark at Heaven's gate sings. Cyvibclinc, Act II, 

Sc. HI 142 

THE BIBLE (1611) 

Exodus 15: Moses'' Song of Deliverance 143 

2 Samuel i : 17-27 : David^s Lament over Saul and Joria!;!,; i . 145 

Psalm 103 146 

Proverbs 8 : The Lnvitation of Wisdom 147 

Isaiah 58: Trzie and False Religion 149 

Matthew 7: The Sermon on the Moiutt 151 

I Corinthians 13: Love Beyond all Things 153 

Revelation 6: The Seven Seals 154 

EssAYES: FRANCIS BACON (1561-1626) 

Of Truth 156 

Of Revenge . . o . c 158 

Of Studies ..„„.. 160 



CONTENTS XXvii 

BEN JONSON (1573-1637) 

The Barriers: Truth 162 

To Celia 163 

SoNG: Still to be neat, still to be drest 163 

The Shepherds' Holiday: Nymphs' Song . 164 

An Epitaph on Salathiel Pavy 165 

To the Memory of my Beloved Master William Shak- 

speare 166 

To Heaven 168 

Epitaph on the Counteo:> kj\! Pembroke 169 

Discoveries: Law of Use 169 

JOHN MILTON (1608- 1674) 

At a Solemn Music o . . 173 

Song on May Morning 174 

On Shakespeare 174 

On his having arrived at the AciE of Twenty-Three . . 175 

L'Allegro 175 

II Penseroso 180 

On His Blindness 186 

Areopagitica : Truth 186 

A Nation in its Strength 187 

An Apology for Smectymnuus: Ea^-ly Impressions . . . . 189 

SAMUEL BUTLER (1612-1680) 

HudibraS : Accomplishments of Hudibras 193 

Religion of Hudibras 197 

JOHN BUNYAN (i 628-1 688) 

Pilgrim's Progress : The Golden City 199 

JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700) 

An Essay on Dramatic Poetry : Shakespeare and Jonson . 209 

Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Killigrew 212 

Alexander's Feast 219 

Lines printed under the Engraved Portrait of Milton . 223 

DANIEL DEFOE (1661-1731) 

Robinson Crusoe: The Shipwreck 224 

The Plague in London : Superstitions ........ 229 



i<i 



XXVIU CONTENT^ 

JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745) page 

The Battle of the Books : The Beginniyig of Hostilities . . 235 

Gulliver's Travels : The Academy of Lagado 242 

JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) 
The Spectator: 

No. 112. Sunday in the Country 246 

No. 159. The Vision of Mirzah 249 

No. 565. Co7itemplation of the Divine Perfections 255 

ALEXANDER POPE (i 688-1 744) 

Essay on Criticism : Standards of Taste 260 

Essay on Man. (^Book /) 264 

On the Picture of Lady Mary W. Montagu 271 

JAMES THOMSON (i 700-1 748) 

The Seasons. Spring: The Coming of the Rain 272 

Summer : The Sheep-Washing 273 

Autumn : Stor77i in Harvest 275 

Winter : A Snow Scene 276 

The Castle of Indolence. (^Book /) 278 

SAMUEL JOHNSON (i 709-1 784) 

Preface to Shakespeare: Shakespeare'' s Greatness .... 283 

Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield 290 

THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) 

Ode on the Spring 292 

Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 294 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 297 

Milton 302 

Journal in the Lakes : Fro7n Keswick to Kendal .... 302 

WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) 

Ode to Liberty 305 

Ode to Evening 310 

Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson 312 



CONTENTS XXIX 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (i 728-1 774) page 

The Deserted Village: Contrasts 314 

Retaliation: Edmund Burke 318 

David Garrick A 319 

Sir Joshua Reynolds 320 

Stanzas on Woman 320 

The Vicar of Wakefield : A Countiy Parsonage 321 

EDMUND BURKE (i 729-1 797) 

Speech on American Taxation : Lord Chatham 325 

Speech on Conciliation with America : Character of the 

Americans 328 

WILLIAM COWPER (i 731-1800) 

The Task : The Post — The Fireside in Winter 336 

Snow 339 

Early Love of the Country 341 

The Poet in the Woods 342 

On Receipt of my ISIother's Picture 343 

EDWARD GIBBON (i 737-1 794) 

Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire: The Overthroiv 

of Zenobia 347 

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) 

To the Evening Star 358 

Song: My silks and fine array 358 

Song : How sweet I roamed from field to field 359 

SoNG: Memory, hither come 360 

Mad Song 360 

To the Muses 361 

Song : Piping down the valleys wild " . 362 

The Lamb 362 

Night 363 

Ah, Sunflower 365 

The Tiger 365 

The Angel . . . . . . , 366 



XXX CONTENTS 

ROBERT BURNS (1759- 1796) page 

Mary Morison 367 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 368 

I LOVE MY Jean ^ 374 

To A Mountain Daisy 375 

Hark! the Mavis 377 

For A' That and A' That 378 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1S50) 

Lines written in Early Spring 380 

Prelude: Influence of A^ature • . . 381 

To a Skylark * . . . -^^i 

The Solitary Reaper 384 

The Daffodils 385 

Milton 386 

On the Departure of Sir Wau'er Scott 387 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality 387 

To the Queen 394 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (i 772-1834) 

Time, Real and Imaginary 396 

Frost at Midnight 39^ 

Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc 399 

Shakespeare: The True Critic 402 

SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) 

Lay of the Last Minstrel : So)?g of the Bard 406 

The Lord of the Isles : Lake Coriski^i 407 

The Talisman : The Christian Knight and the Saracen Cava- 
lier 410 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (i 775-1864) 

A FiEsoLAN Idyl 418 

IpHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 42O 

Children playing in a Churchyard 422 

To the Sister of Elia 422 

Robert Browning 423 



co.vrENi's xxxi 

PAGE 

On his Seventy-Fifth Birthday 424 

I know not whether I am proud 424 

The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings 424 

Death stands above me, whispering low 424 

CHARLES LAMB (i 775-1834) 

The Two Races of Men 425 

A DlSSERTAlION ON ROAST PiG 432 

WILLIAM HAZLITT (i 778-1 830) 

A Farewell to Essay- Writing : A Reminiscence 438 

English Humour 442 

LEIGH HUNT (i 784-1 85 9) 

To THE Grasshopper and the Cricket 445 

On the Realities of Imagination 445 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY (i 785-1 850) 

On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbi-.th 454 

The Three Ladies of Sorrow 460 

LORD BYRON (i 788-1824) 

She walks in Beauty 465 

Stanzas for Music 466 

Don Juan : The Isles of Greece 467 

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: Ocean 470 

On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth Yi'.ar .... 472 

Sonnet on Chillon 474 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (i 792-1822) 

The Cloud 475 

To a Skylark 478 

Ode to the West Wind 481 

A Defense of Poetry: What Poetry Is ....... . 484 

JOHN KEATS (i 795-1 821) 

A Poet's Ecstasy: I stood tiptoe upon a little hill .... 488 

Sleep and Poetry : Art and Imitation 489 



XXXll CONTENTS 

PAGE 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer ....... 490 

Endymion: Beauty 491 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 492 

Addressed to Haydon 494 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 494 

The Human Seasons 495 

To Leigh Hunt 495 

Epistle to my Brother George: The Bard Speaks . . . 496 

THOMAS CARLYLE (1795-1881) 

Essay on Burns: A True Poet-Soul 498 

Sartor Resartus: The Everlasting Yea . 504 

Dante : Giotto'' s Portrait 508 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800- 1859) 

Byron: His Early Fame 510 

Warren Hastings: The Trial 512 

JOHN HENRY CARDINAL NEWMAN (i 801 -1890) 

Idea of a University: Knowledge in Relation to Culture . . 519 

Callista: a Tale of the Third Century: Callista''s Vision 524 

University Sermons: Music a Symbol of the Unseen . . . 526 

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON (i 809-1 892) 

The Dying Swan 528 

The Poet 529 

The Poet's Mind 531 

The Poet's Song 533 

Sir Galahad 533 

Ulysses 536 

Songs from "The Princess" 538 

To THE Queen 540 

Milton 541 

Crossing the Bar 542 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811-1863) 

Vanity Fair: Becky Sharp 543 

De Finibus : Another Finis Written 548 



CONTENTS xxxiii 

CHARLES DICKENS (1811-1870) page 

Oliver Twist : Sikes and his Dog 554 

A Christmas Carol: Christmas at the Cratchits' 559 

The Uncommercial Traveller : The Very Queer Small Boy . 564 

ROBERT BROWNING (181 2-1889) 

Wanting is — What? 567 

■My Star 567 

Pippa Passes : Pippa's Song 568 

Confessions 568 

Respectability 570 

Home Thoughts from Abroad 571 

Home Thoughts from the Sea 572 

Prospice 572 

Memorabilia . 573 

Death in the Desert: " Three Souls, One Man" .... 574 

GEORGE ELIOT (i 819-1880) 

Adam Bede: A Farm House 575 

ROMOLA: Savonarola's Benediction 580 

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861) 

The Stream of Life 586 

The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich : The Highland Stream . 587 

Where lies the Land? 589 

Say not, the Struggle Nought Availeth 589 

Qua Cursum Ventus 590 

* With whom is no Variableness, neither Shadow of 

Turning' 591 

'O 0€OS |JI.€Td (TOV ! 59^ 

Songs in Absence 593 

A River Pool 593 

Come, Poet, Come 594 

In the Great Metropolis 595 

JOHN RUSKIN (1 819- ) 

Praeterita : The Consecration 597 

Modern Painters : Real Happiness 599 



xxxiv CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Lectures on Art: The Fiuiction of Art 602 

Stones of Venice : Knoivledge and Wisdom 605 

MAITHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) 

Empedocles on Etna : Callides' Song 607 

Dover Beach T . . . 609 

Memorial Verses 610 

Rugby Chapel: Servants of God 613 

Shakespeare 613 

Written in Emerson's Essays 614 

East London 615 

Calais Sands 615 

The Study of Poetry: Poetry a Criticism of Life . . . . 617 

NOTES 621 

INDEX OF AUTHORS AND NOTES 663 

BOOKS OF GENERAL REFERENCE 664 

CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 665 

GLOSSARY 668 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

(1340-1400) 

THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES 

The season of the pilgrimage, and the assembling of 
the pilgrims at the Tabard Inn, described 

Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote 
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 
And bathed every veyne in swich Hcour 
Of which vertu engendred is the flour ; 
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 5 

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, 
And smale foweles maken melodye 
That slepen al the nyght with open eye, — 10 

So priketh hem Natiire in hir corages, — 
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, 
To feme halwes, kowthe in sondry londes ; 
And specially, from every shires ende 15 

Of Engelond, to Caunturbury they wende, 
The hooly blisful martir for to seke, 
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 

Bifil that in that seson on a day, 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 20 

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage 

B I 



FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 

At nyght were come into that hostelrye 

Wei nyne-and-twenty in a compaignye, 

Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle 25 

In felaweshipe, and pilgrims were they alle, 

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 

The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 

And wel we weren esed atte beste. 

And, shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 30 

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 

That I was of hir felaweshipe anon. 

And made forward erly for to ryse. 

To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse. 

But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, 35 

Er that I ferther in this tale pace. 
Me thynketh it accordaunt to resoun 
To telle yow al the condicioun 
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 
And whiche they weren and of what degree, 40 

And eek in what array that they were inne ; 
And at a Knyght than wol I first bigynne. 

The Knight 

A Knyght ther was and that a worthy man, 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
To riden out, he loved chivalrie, 45 

Trouthe and hon6ur, fredom and curteisie. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre. 
And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre, 
As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse, 
And evere honoured for his worthynesse. 50 

At Ahsaundre he was whan it was wonne ; 



CHA UCER 2 

Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne 
Aboven alle nacibns in Pruce. 

In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce, 

No cristen man so ofte of his degree. 53 

In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be 

Of Algezir, and riden in Behiiarye. 

At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 

Whan they were wonne ; and in the Crete See 

At many a noble aryve hadde he be. 60 

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 
And fonghten for oure feith at Tramyssene 
In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also 
Somtyme with the lord of Palatye 6- 

Agayn another hethen in Turkye ; 
And everemoore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 
And though that he were worthy, he was wys, 
And of his port as meeke as is a mayde. 
He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde, 
In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. 
He was a verray parfit, gentil knyght. 

But for to tellen yow of his array, 
His hors weren goode, but he ne was nat gay ; 
Of fustian he wered a gypon 
Al bism6tered with his habergeon, 
For he was late y-come from his viage. 
And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 

The Squire 

With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squier, 
A lovyere and a lusty bacheler, 80 

With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. 



70 



75 



FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 

Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 

And wonderly delyvere and greet of strengthe ; 

And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie, 85 

In Flaundres, in Artoys and Pycardie, 

And born hym weel, as of so Utel space, 

In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 

Embrouded was he, as it were a meede 

Al fill of fresshe floures whyte and reede ; 90 

Syngynge he was or floyty nge, al the day ; 

He was as fressh as is the monthe of May. 

Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and wyde ; 

Wei koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde ; 

He koude songes make and wel endite, 95 

Juste and eek daunce and weel purtreye and write. 

So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale 

He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 

Curteis he was, lowely and servysable, 

And carf biforn his fader at the table. too 

The Yeojnan 

A Yeman hadde he and servantz namo 
At that tyrne, for hym Hste ride soo; 
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene. 
A sheef of pocok arwes bright and kene 
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily — 105 

Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly ; 
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe — 
And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe. 
A not-heed hadde he with a broun visage. 
Of woodecraft wel koude he al the usage. no 

Upon his arm he baar a gay bracer, 



115 



120 



CHA UCER 

And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, 
And on that oother syde a gay daggere 
Harneised wel and sharpe as point of spere ; 
A Christophere on his brest of silver sheene ; 
An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene. 
A forster was he, soothly as I gesse. 

The Nun 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy ; 
Hire gretteste ooth was but by seint Loy, 
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne, 
Entuned in hir nose ful semely, 
And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly 
After the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe, 
For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle, 
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe. 
Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe 
That no drope ne fille upon hire breste ; 
In curteisie was set ful muchel hir leste. 
Hire over-hppe wyped she so clene, 
That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene 
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 135 
Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, 
And sikerly she was of greet desport, 
And ful plesaunt and amyable of port, 
x\nd peyned hire to countrefete cheere 
Of Court, and been estatlich of manere, _ 140 

And to ben holden digne of reverence. 



125 



130 



FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

But for to speken of hire conscience, 

She was so charitable and so pitous 

She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous 

Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 145 

Of smale houndes hadde she that she fedde 

With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel breed ; 

But soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed, 

Or if rnen smoot it with a yerde smerte. 

And al was conscience and tendre herte. 150 

Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was ; 
Hire nose tretys, hir eyen greye as glas, 
Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed, 
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed ; 
It was almoost a spanne brood I trowe, 155 

For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 
Ful fetys was hir cloke as I was war ; 
Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 
A peire of bedes gauded al with grene. 
And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene, 160 

On which ther was first write a crowned A, 
And after Amor vincit 07nnia. 

Another Nonne with hire hadde she 
That was hire Chapeleyne, and preestes thre. 

The Monk 

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie, 165 

An outridere that lovede venerie, 
A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable. 
And whan he rood men myghte his brydel heere 
Gynglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere, 170 

And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle. 



CHA UCER 7 

Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle, 

The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, 

By-cause that it was old and som-del streit, — 

This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace 175 

And heeld after the newe world the space. 

He gaf nat of that text a pulled hen 

That seith that hunters beth nat hooly men, 

Ne that a Monk whan he is recchelees 

Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees ; 180 

This is to seyn, a Monk out of his cloystre. 

But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre ; 

And I seyde his opinioun was good. 

What sholde he studie and make hym-selven wood, 

Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, 185 

Or swynken with his handes and lab6ure 

As Austyn bit? how shal the world be served? 

Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved. 

Therfore he was a prikasour aright ; 

Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight : 190 

Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 

Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 

I seigh his sieves y-purfiled at the hond 

With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond ; 

And for to festne his hood under his chyn 195 

He hadde of gold y-wroght a ful curious pyn, 

A love knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 

His heed was balled that shoon as any glas, 

And eek his face as it hadde been enoynt. 

He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; 200 

Hise eyen stepe and rollynge in his heed, 

That stemed as a forneys of a leed ; 

His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. 

Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat. 



8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

He was nat pale, as a forpyned goost : 205 

A fat swan loved he best of any roost ; 
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 

The Friar 

A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye, 
A lymytour, a ful solempne man, 

In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan 210 

So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage ; 
He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wommen at his owene cost : 
Unto his ordre he was a noble post, 
Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 215 

With frankeleyns over al in his contree ; 
And eek with worthy wommen of the toun, 
For he hadde power of confessioun, 
As seyde hym-self, moore than a curat. 
For of his ordre he was licenciat. 220 

Ful svvetely herde he confessioun, 
And plesaunt was his absolucioun. 
He was an esy man to geve penaunce 
Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce ; 
For unto a poure ordre for to give 225 

Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve ; 
For, if he gaf, he dorste make avaunt 
He wiste that a man was repentaunt : 
For many a man so harde is of his herte 
He may nat wepe al thogh hym soore smerte, 230 

Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyeres 
Men moote geve silver to the poure freres. 
His typet was ay farsed full of knyves 
And pynnes, for to geven yonge wyves ; 



CHA UCER 9 

And certeinly he hadde a miirye note ; 235 

Wei koiide he synge and pleyen on a rote : 

Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris ; 

His nekke whit as the flour-de-lys, 

Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. 

He knew the tavernes well in al the toun 240 

And everich hostiler and tappestere 

Bet than a lazar or a beggestere ; 

For unto swich a worthy man as he 

Acorded nat, as by his facultee, 

To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce ; 245 

It is nat honeste. it may nat avamice 

F6r to deelen with no swiche poraille ; 

But al with riche and selleres of vitaille. 

And over al, ther as profit sholde arise, 

Curteis he was and lowely of servyse, 250 

Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous — 

He was the beste beggere in his hous ; 

For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho, 

So pleasaunt was his In pruicipio, 

Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente : 255 

His purchas was wel bettre than his rente. 

And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe. 

In love dayes ther koude he muchel helpe, 

For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer 

With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scoler, 260 

But he was lyk a maister, or a pope ; 

Of double worstede was his semycope. 

That rounded as a belle out of the presse. 

Somwhat he lipsed for his wantowiiesse, 

To make his Englissh sweet upon his tonge, 265 

And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe, 

Hise eyen twynkled in his heed aryght 



lO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. 
This worthy lyraytour was cleped Huberd. 

The Merchant 

A Marchant was ther with a forked herd, 270 

In motteleye, and hye on horse he sat ; 
Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat ; 
His bootes clasped faire and fetisly ; 
Hise resons he spak ful solempnely, 
Sownynge aUvay thencrees of his wynnyng. 275 

He wolde the see were kept for any thing 
Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
Wei koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. 
This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette, 
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 280 

So estatly was he of his governaunce 
With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce. 
For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle 
But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle. 

The Clerk {or Scholar) of Oxford 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also 285 

That unto logyk hadde longe y-go ; 
As leene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake. 
But looked holwe and ther-to sobrely ; 
Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy ; 290 

For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 
Ne was so worldly for to have office ; 
For hym was levere have at his beddes heed 
Twenty bookes clad in blak or reed 



CHA UCER 1 1 

Of Aristotle and his philosophic, 295 

Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie : 

But al be that he was a philosophre, 

Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; 

But al that he myghte of his freends hente 

On bookes and his lernynge he it spente, 300 

And bisily gan for the soules preye 

Of hem that gaf hym wher-with to scoleye. 

Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede, ' 

Noght o word spak he moore than was neede, 

And that was seyd in form and reverence 305 

And short and quyk and ful of hy sentence. 

Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche 

And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 

The Sergeant at Law 

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
That often hadde been at the Parvys, 310 

Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discreet he was and of greet reverence ; 
He semed swich, hise wordes weren so wise. 
Justice he was ful often in Assise, 

By patente and by pleyn commissioun : 315 

For his science and for his heigh renoun. 
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon ; 
So greet a purchasour was nowher noon. 
All was fee symple to hym in effect, 
His purchasyng myghte nat been infect. 320 

Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas, 
And yet he semed bisier than he was. 
In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle 
That from the tyme of kyng William were falle ; 



12 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Ther-to he koude endite and make a thyng, 325 

Ther koude no wight pynchen at his writyng ; 

And every statut coude he pleyn by rote. 

He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote 

Girt with a ceint of silk with barres smale ; 

Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 330 

The Franklin 

A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye. 
Whit was his herd as is a dayesye. 
Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 
Wei loved he by the morwe a sope in wyn ; 
To lyven in delit was evere his wone, 335 

For he was Epicurus owene sone, 
That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit 
Was verraily felicitee parfit. 
An housholdere, and a greet, was he ; 
Seint Julian was he in his contree ; 340 

His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon ; 
A bettre envyned man was nowher noon, 
Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, 
Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous. 
It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke, 345 

Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke. 
After the sondry sesons of the yeer. 
So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe 
And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe. 350 

Wo was his cook but if his sauce were 
Poynaunt and sharpe and redy al his geere. 
His table dormant in his halle alway, 
Stood redy covered al the longe day. 



CHA UCER 1 3 

At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire ; 355 

Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire. 

An anlaas, and a gipser al of silk, 

Heeng at his girdel whit as morne milk. 

A shirreve hadde he been and a countour. 

Was nowher such a worthy vavasour. 360 

The Haberdasher, Etc. 

An Haberdasshere, and a Carpenter, 
A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer, — 
And they were clothed alle in o lyveree 
Of a solempne and greet fraternitee. 
Ful fressh and newe hir geere apiked was ; 365 

Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras, 
But al with silver, wroght ful clene and weel, 
Hire girdles and hir pouches everydeel. 
Wei semed ech of hem a fair burgeys 
To sitten in a geldehalle, on a deys. 370 

Everich for the wisdom that he kan 
Was shaply for to been an alderman. 
For catel hadde they ynogh and rente, 
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente ; 
And elles certeyn were they to blame. 375 

It is ful fair to been y-cleped Madame, 
And goon to vigilies al bifore, 
And have a mantel roiaUiche y-bore. 

The Cook 

A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones, 
To boille the chiknes with the marybones 380 

And poudre-marchant tart and galyngale ; 



14 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Wei koude he knowe a draughte of Londoun ale ; 

He koude rooste and sethe and boille and frye, 

Maken mortreux and well bake a pye. 

But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 385 

That on his shyne a niormal hadde he 

For blankmanger, that made he with the beste. 



't>' 



The Shipman 

A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste ; 
For aught I woot he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood upon a rouncy as he kouthe, 390 

In a gowne of faldyng to the knee. 
A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he 
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun, 
And certeinly he was a good felawe. 395 

Ful many a draughte of wyn he hadde drawe 
Fro Burdeuxward whil that the Chapman sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 
If that he faught, and hadde the hyer hond, 
By water he sente him hoom to every lond. 400 

But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, 
His stremes and his daungers him bisides, 
His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage, 
Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage. 
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake : 405 

With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake. 
He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were, 
From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere, 
And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne. 
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 410 



CHAUCER 



The Physician 



15 



With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik ; 
In all this world ne was ther noon hym lik, 
To speke of phisik and of surgerye ; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 
He kepte his pacient a ful greet deel 415 

In houres by his magyk natureel. 
Wei koude he fortunen the ascendent 
Of hise ymages for his pacient. 
He knew the cause of everich maladye, 
Were it of hoot, or cold, or moyste, or drye, 420 

And where they engendred and of what humour; 
He was a verray parfit praktisour. 
The cause y-knowe and of his harm the roote, 
Anon he gaf the sike man his boote. 
Ful redy hadde he hise apothecaries 425 

To sende him drogges and his letuaries, 
For ech of hem made oother for to wynne, 
Hir frendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne. 
Wei knew he the olde Esculapius 
And Deyscorides, and eek Rufus, 
Olde Ypocras, Haly and Galyen, 
Serapion, Razis and Avycen, 
Averrois, Damascien and Constantyn, 
Bernard and Gatesden and Gilbertyn. 
Of his diete mesurable was he, 433 

For it was of no superfluitee, 
But of greet norissyng and digestible. 
His studie was but Htel on the Bible. 
In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al, 
Lyned with taifata and with sendal. 440 

And yet he was but esy of dispence ; 



430 



1 6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 
For gold in phisik is a cordial, 
Therfore he lovede gold in special. 

The Wife of Bath 

A GOOD wiF was ther of biside Bathe, 445 

But she was som-del deef and that was scathe. 
Of clooth-makyng she hadde swich an haunt 
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon 
That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon ; 450 

And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she, 
That she was out of alle charitee. 
Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of ground, — 
I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound, — 
That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed. 455 

Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed 
Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moyste and newe. 
Boold was hir face and fair and reed of hewe. 
She was a worthy womman al hir lyve, 
Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve, 460 

Withouten oother compaignye in youthe, — 
But ther-of nedeth nat to speke as nowthe, — 
And thries hadde she been at Jerusalem ; 
She hadde passed many a straunge strem ; 
At Rome she hadde been and at Boloigne, 465 

In GaUce at Seint Jame, and at Coloigne. 
She koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye. 
Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye. 
Upon an amblere esily she sat, 

Y-wympled wel, and on hir heed an hat 47° 

As brood as is a bokeler or a targe ; 



CHAUCER jy 

A foot mantel aboute hir hi pes large, 

And on hire feet a paire of spores sharpe. 

In felaweshipe wel koude she laughe and carpe. 

Of remedies of love she knew per chaunce, 475 

For she koude of that art the olde daunce. 



T/ie Parish Priest 

A good man was ther of religioun 
And was a Poure Persoun of a Toun ; 
But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk ; 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 480 

That Cristes Gospel trewely wolde preche : 
Hise parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benygne he was and wonder diligent, 
And in adversitee fill pacient ; 

And swich he was y-preved ofte sithes. 485 

Ful looth were hym to cursen for hise tithes, 
But rather wolde he geven, out of doute, 
Unto his poure parisshens aboute. 
Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce : 
He koude in litel thyng have sufifisaunce. 490 

Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder. 
But he ne lafte nat for reyn ne thonder. 
In siknesse nor in meschief to visite 
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite. 
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf. 495 

This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf 
That firste he wroghte and afterward he taughte. 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, 
And this figure he added eek therto, 
That if gold ruste what shal iren doo ? 500 

For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste. 



1 8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; 

And shame it is, if a preest take keepe, 

A [dirty] shepherde and a clene sheepe. 

Wei oghte a preest ensample for to geve 505 

By his clennesse how that his sheep sholde lyve. 

He sette nat his benefice to hyre 

And leet his sheep encombred in the myre, 

And ran to Londoun unto Seint Poules 

To seken hym a chaunterie for soules, 510 

Or with a bretherhed to been withholde ; 

But dwelte at hoom and kepte wel his folde, 

So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie, — 

He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie ; 

And though he hooly were and vertuous, 515 

He was to synful man nat despitous, 

Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne. 

But in his techyng descreet and benygne. 

To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, 

By good ensample, this was his bisynesse : 520 

But it were any persone obstinat, 

What so he were, of heigh or lough estat, 

Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys. 

A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon ys. 

He waited after no pompe and reverence, 525 

Ne maked him a spiced conscience, 

But Cristes loore, and his Apostles twelve, 

He taughte, but first he folwed it hym selve. 



SIR THOMAS MALORY 

(Fl. 1470) 

KING ARTHUR 

Of the birth of Kmg Arthur, and how he was 
chosen king 

It befell in the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was 
king of all England, and so reigned, that there was a 
mighty duke in Cornwall that held war against him long 
time. And the duke was named the duke of Tintagil. 
And so by means king Uther sent for this duke, charging 5 
him to bring his wife with him, for she was called a fair 
lady, and a passing wise, and her name was called Igraine. 
And the messengers had their answers, and that was this, 
shortly, that neither he nor his wife would not come 
at him. Then was the king wonderly wroth. And then 10 
the king sent him plain word again, and bade him be 
ready and stuff him and garnish him, for within forty 
days he would fetch him out of the biggest castle that he 
hath. When the duke had this warning, anon he went 
and furnished and garnished two strong castles of his, of 15 
the which the one hight Tintagil and the other castle 
hight Terrabil. So his wife, dame Igraine, he put in the 
castle of Tintagil, and himself he put in the castle of 
Terrabil, the which had many issues and posterns out. 
Then in all haste came Uther with a great host, and laid 20 
a siege about the castle of Terrabil. And there he pight 

19 



20 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

many pavilions, and there was great war made on both 
parties, and much people slain. 

But the duke of Tintagil espied how the king rode from 
the siege of Terrabil, and therefore that night he issued 25 
out of the castle at a postern, for to have distressed the 
king's host. And so, through his own issue, the duke 
himself was slain or ever the king came at the castle of 
Tintagil. Then all the barons by one assent prayed the 
king of accord between the lady Igraine and him. The 30 
king gave them leave, for fain would he have been 
accorded with her. So the king put all the trust in 
Uliius to entreat between them ; so, by the entreat, at 
the last the king and she met together. Now will we do 
well, said Ulfius : our king is a lusty knight and wifeless, 35 
and my lady Igraine is a passing fair lady ; it were great 
joy unto us all and it might please the king to make her 
his queen. Unto that they were all well accorded, and 
moved it to the king : and anon, like a lusty knight, he 
assented thereto with good will, and so in all haste they 40 
were married in a morning with great mirth and joy. 

Then the time came that the queen Igraine should bear 
a child. Then came Merlin unto the king and said, Sir, 
ye must purvey you for the nourishing of your child. As 
thou wilt, said the king, be it. Well, said Merlin, I know 45 
a lord of yours in this land, that is a passing true man 
and a faithful, and he shall have the nourishing of your 
child, and his name is Sir Ector, and he is a lord of fair 
livelihood in many parts in England and Wales. And 
this lord. Sir Ector, let him be sent for, for to come and 50 
speak with you ; and desire him yourself, as he loveth 
you, that he will put his own child to nourishing to 
another woman, and that his wife nourish yours. And 
when the child is born let it be deHvered unto me at 



MALORY 21 

yonder privy postern unchristened. So like as Merlin 55 
devised it was done. And when Sir Ector was come he 
made affiance to the king for to nourish the child like 
as the king desired ; and there the king granted Sir Ector 
great rewards. Then when the lady was delivered, the 
king commanded two knights and two ladies to take the 60 
child bound in a cloth of gold, and that ye deliver him 
to what poor man ye meet at the postern gate of the 
castle. So the child was delivered unto Merlin, and so 
he bare it forth unto Sir Ector, and made an holy man 
to christen him, and named him Arthur : and so Sir 65 
Ector's wife nourished him with her own breast. 

Then within two years king Uther fell sick of a great 
malady. And in the meanwhile his enemies usurped upon 
him, and did a great battle upon his men, and slew many 
of his people. Sir, said Merlin, ye may not lie so as ye 70 
do, for ye must to the field, though ye ride on an horse- 
litter ; for ye shall never have the better of your enemies 
but if your person be there, and then shall ye have the 
victory. So it was done as Merlin had devised, and they 
carried the king forth in a horse-litter with a great host 75 
towards his enemies. And at St. Albans there met with 
the king a great host of the North. And that day Sir 
Ulfius and Sir Brastias did great deeds of arms, and king 
Uther's men overcame the Northern battle, and slew many 
people, and put the remnant to flight. And then the 80 
king returned unto London, and made great joy of his 
victory. And then he fell passing sore sick, so that three 
days and three nights he was speechless ; wherefore all 
the barons made great sorrow, and asked Merlin what 
counsel were best. There is none other remedy, said 85 
Merlin, but God will have his will. But look ye all barons 
be before king Uther to-morn; and God and I shall make 



22 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

him to speak. So on the morn all the barons with Merlin 
came tofore the king : then Merlin said aloud unto king 
Uther, Sir, shall your son Arthur be king after your days, 90 
of this realm, with all the appurtenance? Then Uther 
Pendragon turned him and said in hearing of them all, 
I give him God's blessing and mine, and bid him pray 
for my soul, and righteously and worshipfully that he 
claim the crown upon forfeiture of my blessing. And 95 
therewith he yielded up the ghost. And then was he 
interred as longed to a king. Wherefore the queen, fair 
Igraine, made great sorrow and all the barons. Then 
stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every 
lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and many 100 
wend to have been king. 

Then Merlin went to the archbishop of Canterbury, and 
counselled him for to send for all the lords of the realm, 
and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London 
come by Christmas upon pain of cursing : and for this 105 
cause — that Jesus, that was born on that night, that He 
would of his great mercy shew some miracle, as He was 
come to be king of mankind, for to shew some miracle 
who should be rightwise king of this realm. So the 
archbishop by the advice of Merlin sent for all the no 
lords and gentlemen of arms, that they should come by 
Christmas even unto London. And many of them made 
them clean of their life, that their prayer might be the 
more acceptable unto God. 

So in the greatest church of London (whether it were 115 
Paul's or not, the French book maketh no mention) all 
the estates were long or day in the church for to pray. 
And when matins and the first mass was done, there 
was seen in the churchyard against the high altar a great 
stone four square, like unto a marble stone, and in the 120 



MALORY 23 

midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a foot on high, 
and therein stack a fair sword naked by the point, and 
letters there were written in gold about the sword that 
said thus : Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and 
anvil is rightwise king born of all England. Then the 125 
people marvelled, and told it to the archbishop. 1 com- 
mand, said the archbishop, that ye keep you within your 
church, and pray unto God still ; that no man touch 
the sword till the high mass be all done. So when all 
masses were done all the lords went to behold the stone 130 
and the sword. And when they saw the scripture, some 
assayed — such as would have been king. But none 
might stir the sword nor move it. He is not here, said 
the archbishop, that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not 
God will make him known. But this is my counsel, said 13s 
the archbishop, that we let purvey ten knights, men of 
good fame, and they to keep this sword. So it was 
ordained, and then there was made a cry, that every man 
should assay that would, for to win the sword. And upon 
New Year's Day the barons let make a justs and a tourna- 140 
ment, that all knights that would just or tourney there 
might play : and all this was ordained for to keep the 
lords together and the commons, for the archbishop 
trusted that God would make him known that should 
win the sword. 145 

So upon New Year's Day when the service was done 
the barons rode to the field, some to just, and some to 
tourney ; and so it happed that Sir Ector, that had great 
livelihood about London, rode unto the justs, and with 
him rode Sir Kay his son and young Arthur that was 150 
his nourished brother, and Sir Kay was made knight at 
Allhallowmas afore. So as they rode to the justs-ward 
Sir Kay had lost his sword, for he had left it at his 



24 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

father's lodging, and so he prayed young Arthur to ride 
for his sword. I will well, said Arthur, and rode fast 155 
after the sword ; and when he came home the lady and 
all were out to see the justing. Then was Arthur wroth, 
and said to himself, I will ride to the churchyard and 
take the sword with me that sticketh in the stone, for 
my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this 160 
day. 

So when he came to the churchyard Sir Arthur alighted, 
and tied his horse to the stile, and so he went to the 
tent, and found no knights there, for they were at the 
justing ; and so he handled the sword by the handles, and 165 
lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his 
horse and rode his way till he came to his brother Sir Kay, 
and delivered him the sword. And as soon as Sir Kay 
saw the sword he wist well it was the sword of the stone, 
and so he rode to his father Sir Ector, and said : Sir, lo 170 
here is the sword of the stone ; wherefore I must be king 
of this land. When Sir Ector beheld the sword he re- 
turned again and came to the church, and there they 
alighted all three and went into the church, and anon he 
made Sir Kay to swear upon a book how he came to that 175 
sword. Sir, said Sir Kay, by my brother Arthur, for he 
brought it to me. How gat ye this sword? said Sir Ector 
to Arthur. Sir I will tell you : when I came home for my 
brother's sword, I found nobody at home to deliver me his 
sword, and so I thought my brother Sir Kay should not be 180 
swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out 
of the stone without any pain. Found ye any knights 
about this sword? said Sir Ector. Nay, said Arthur. 
Now, said Sir Ector to Arthur, I understand ye must be 
king of this land. Wherefore I, said Arthur, and for 185 
what cause? Sir, said Ector, for God will have it so: 



MALORY 25 

for there should never man have drawn out this sword but 
he that shall be rightwise king of this land. Now let me 
see whether ye can put the sword there as it was, and 
pull it out again. That is no mastery, said Arthur : and 190 
so he put it into the stone. Therewith Sir Ector assayed 
to pull out the sword and failed. 

Now assay, said Sir Ector to Sir Kay. And anon he 
pulled at the sword with all his might, but it would not be. 
Now shall ye assay, said Sir Ector to Arthur. I will well, 195 
said Arthur, and pulled it out easily. And therewithal 
Sir Ector kneeled down to the earth, and Sir Kay. Alas, 
said Arthur, mine own dear father and brother, why kneel 
ye to me. Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so : I was 
never your father nor of your blood, but I wote well ye are 200 
of an higher blood than I wend ye were. And then Sir 
Ector told him all, how he was betaken him for to nourish 
him, and by whose commandment, and by Merlin's deliv- 
erance. Then Arthur made great dole when he under- 
stood that Sir Ector was not his father. Sir, said Ector 205 
unto Arthur, will ye be my good and gracious lord when 
ye are king ? Else were I to blame, said Arthur, for ye 
are the man in the world that I am most beholding to, and 
my good lady and mother your wife, that as well as her 
own hath fostered me and kept. And if ever it be God's 210 
will that I be king, as ye say, ye shall desire of me what 
I may do, and I shall not fail you : God forbid I should 
fail you. Sir, said Sir Ector, I will ask no more of you 
but that you will make my son, your foster-brother Sir 
Kay, seneschal of all your lands. That shall be done, 215 
said Arthur, and more by the faith of my body, that 
never man shall have that office but he, while he and I 
live. Therewithal they went unto the archbishop, and 
told him how the sword was achieved, and by whom. 



26 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And on Twelfth Day all the barons came thither, and 220 
to assay to take the sword who that would assay. But 
there afore them all there might none take it out but 
Arthur, wherefore there were many lords wroth, and said 
it was great shame unto them all and the realm, to be 
over governed with a boy of no high blood born. And 225 
so they fell out at that time that it was put off till Candle- 
mas, and then all the barons should meet there again. 
But always the ten knights were ordained to watch the 
sword day and night, and so they set a pavilion over the 
stone and the sword, and five always watched. So at 230 
Candlemas many more great lords came hither for to 
have won the sword, but there might none prevail. And 
right as Arthur did at Christmas he did at Candlemas, 
and pulled out the sword easily, whereof the barons were 
sore aggrieved, and put it off in delay till the high feast 235 
of Easter. And as Arthur sped afore, so did he at 
Easter : yet there were some of the great lords had 
indignation that Arthur should be their king, and put it 
off in a delay till the feast of Pentecost. Then the arch- 
bishop of Canterbury by Merhn's providence let purvey 240 
them of the best knights that they might get, and such 
knights as king Uther Pendragon loved best and most 
trusted in his days, and such knights were put about 
Arthur, as Sir Baud win of Britain, Sir Kay, Sir Ulfius, Sir 
Brastias. All these, with many other, were always about 245 
Arthur, day and night, till the feast of Pentecost. 

And at the feast of Pentecost all manner of men assayed 
to pull at the sword that would assay, but none might 
prevail but Arthur ; and he pulled it out afore all the 
lords and commons that were there, wherefore all the 250 
commons cried at once. We will have Arthur unto our 
king ; we will put him no more in delay, for we all see 



MALORY 27 

that it is God's will that he shall be our king, and who that 
holdeth against it we will slay him. And therewithal they 
kneeled down all at once, both rich and poor, and cried 255 
Arthur mercy, because they had delayed him so long. 
And Arthur forgave them, and took the sword between 
both his hands, and offered it upon the altar where the 
archbishop was, and so was he made knight of the best 
man that was there. And so anon was the coronation 260 
made, and there was he sworn unto his lords and the 
commons for to be a true king, to stand with true justice 
from thenceforth the days of this hfe. Also then he made 
all lords that held of the crown to come in, and to do 
service as they ought to do. And many complaints were 265 
made unto Sir Arthur of great wrongs that were done 
since the death of king Uther, of many lands that were 
bereaved lords, knights, ladies, and gentlemen. Where- 
fore king Arthur made the lands to be given again unto 
them that owned them. When this was done that the 270 
king had stablished all the countries about London, then 
he let make Sir Kay seneschal of England ; and Sir 
Baudwin of Britain was made constable ; and Sir Ulfius 
was made chamberlain ; and Sir Brastias was made war- 
den to wait upon the north from Trent forwards, for it 275 
was that time, for the most part, the king's enemies'. 
But within a few years after, Arthur won all the north, 
Scotland, and all that were under their obeisance. Also 
Wales, a part of it held against Arthur, but he overcame 
them all as he did the remnant through the noble prow- 280 
ess of himself and his knights of the Round Table. 



28 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 



Galahad and the Sivord 

At the vigil of Pentecost, when all the fellowship of 
the Round Table were comen unto Camelot, and there 
heard their service, and the tables were set ready to the 
meat, right so entered into the hall a full fair gentle- 
woman on horseback, that had ridden full fast, for her 5 
horse was all besweat. Then she there alight, and came 
before the king, and saluted him ; and then he said, 
Damsel, God thee bless ! Sir, said she, I pray, you say 
me where Sir Launcelot is? Yonder ye may see him, 
said the king. Then she went unto Launcelot and said, 10 
Sir Launcelot, I salute you on king Pelles' behalf, and I 
require you come on with me hereby into a forest. Then 
Sir Launcelot asked her with whom she dwelled ? I dwell, 
said she, with king Pelles. What will ye with me? said 
Sir Launcelot. Ye shall know, said she, when ye come 15 
thither. Well, said he, I will gladly go with you. So Sir 
Launcelot bade his squire saddle his horse and bring his 
arms; and in all haste he did his commandment. Then 
came the queen unto Launcelot and said. Will ye leave 
us at this high feast? Madam, said the gentlewoman, wit 20 
ye well he shall be with you to-morrow by dinner-time. 
If I wist, said the queen, that he should not be with us 
here to-morn, he should not go with you by my good 
will. 

Right so departed Sir Launcelot with the gentlewoman, 25 
and rode until that he came into a forest, and into a 
great valley, where they saw an abbey of nuns ; and 
there was a squire ready, and opened the gates ; and so 
they entered, and descended off their horses, and there 
came a fair fellowship about Sir Launcelot and welcomed 30 



AIALORY 29 

him, and were passing glad of his coming. And then they 
led him into the Abbess's chamber, and unarmed him, 
and right so he was ware upon a bed lying two of his 
cousins, Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, and then he waked 
them, and when they saw him they made great joy. Sir, 35 
said Sir Bors unto Sir Launcelot, what adventure hath 
brought thee hither, for we wend to-morrow to have 
found you at Camelot? Truly, said Sir Launcelot, a 
gentlewoman brought me hither, but I know not the 
cause. In the meanwhile, as they thus stood talking 40 
together, there came twelve nuns which brought with 
them Galahad, the which was passing fair and well made, 
that unneth in the world men might not find his match ; 
and all those ladies wept. Sir, said the ladies, we bring 
you here this child, the which we have nourished, and 45 
we pray you to make him a knight ; for of a more 
worthier man's hand may he not receive the order of 
knighthood. Sir Launcelot beheld that young squire, 
and saw him seemly and demure as a dove, with all 
manner of good features, that he wend of his age never 50 
to have seen so fair a man of form. Then said Sir 
Launcelot, Cometh this desire of himself ? He and all 
they said. Yea. Then shall he, said Sir Launcelot, re- 
ceive the high order of knighthood as to-morrow at the 
reverence of the high feast. That night Sir Launcelot 55 
had passing good cheer, and on the morn at the hour 
of prime, at Galahad's desire, he made him knight, and 
said, God make him a good man, for beauty faileth you 
not as any that liveth. 

Now, fair sir, said Sir Launcelot, will ye come with me 60 
unto the court of king Arthur? Nay, said he, I will not 
go with you as at this time. Then he departed from 
them and took his two cousins with him, and so they 



30 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

came unto Camelot by the hour of underne on Whitsun- 
day. By that time the king and the queen were gone to 65 
the minster to hear their service : then the king and the 
queen were passing glad of Sir Bors and Sir Lionel, and 
so was all the fellowship. So when the king and all the 
knights were come from service, the barons espied in 
the sieges of the Round Table, all about written with 70 
gold letters — Here ought to sit he, and he ought to sit 
here. And thus they went so long until that they came 
to the siege perilous, where they found letters newly writ- 
ten of gold, that said : Four hundred winters and fifty- 
four accomplished after the passion of our Lord Jesu 75 
Christ ought this siege to be fulfilled. Then all they 
said, This is a marvellous thing, and an adventurous. In 
the name of God, said Sir Launcelot ; and then he ac- 
counted the term of the writing, from the birth of our 
Lord unto that day. It seemeth me, said Sir Launcelot, 80 
this siege ought to be fulfilled this same day, for this is 
the feast of Pentecost after the four hundred and four 
and fifty year ; and if it would please all parties, I would 
none of these letters were seen this day, till he be come 
that ought to achieve this adventure. Then made they 85 
to ordain a cloth of silk for to cover these letters in the 
siege perilous. Then the king bad haste unto dinner. 
Sir, said Sir Kay the steward, if ye go now unto your 
meat, ye shall break your old custom of your court. For 
ye have not used on this day to sit at your meat or that 90 
ye have seen some adventure. Ye say sooth, said the 
king, but I had so great joy of Sir Launcelot and of his 
cousins, which be come to the court whole and sound, 
that I bethought me not of my old custom. So as they 
stood speaking, in came a squire, and said unto the king, 95 
Sir, I bring unto you marvellous tidings. What be they? 



MALORY 31 

said the king. Sir, there is here beneath at the river 
a great stone, which I saw fleet above the water, and 
therein saw I sticking a sword. The king said, I will see 
that marvel. So all the knights went with him, and when 100 
they came unto the river, they found there a stone fleet- 
ing, as it were of red marble, and therein stack a fair and 
a rich sword, and in the pommel thereof were precious 
stones, wrought with subtil letters of gold. Then the 
barons read the letters, which said in this wise : Never 105 
shall man take me hence but only he by whose side I 
ought to hang, and he shall be the best knight of the 
world. When the king had seen these letters, he said 
unto Sir Launcelot, Fair sir, this sword ought to be yours, 
for I am sure ye be the best knight of the world. Then no 
Sir Launcelot answered full soberly : Certes, sir, it is not 
my sword : also, sir, wit ye well I have no hardiness to 
set my hand to, for it longed not to hang by my side. 
Also who that assayeth to take that sword, and faileth of 
it, he shall receive a wound by that sword, that he shall 115 
not be whole long after. And I will that ye wit that this 
same day will the adventures of the Sancgreal, that is 
called the holy vessel, begin. 

Now, fair nephew, said the king unto Sir Gawaine, 
assay ye for my love. Sir, he said, save your good grace, 120 
I shall not do that. Sir, said the king, assay to take the 
sword, and at my commandment. Sir, said Gawaine, 
your commandment I will obey. And therewith he took 
up the sword by the handles, but he might not stir it. 
I thank you, said the king to Sir Gawaine. My lord Sir 125 
Gawaine, said Sir Launcelot, now wit ye well, this sword 
shall touch you so sore that ye shall will ye had never set 
your hand thereto, for the best castle of this realm. Sir, 
he said, I might not withsay mine uncle's will and com- 



32 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

mandment. But when the king heard this, he repented 130 
it much, and said unto Sir Percivale, that he should assay 
for his love. And he said, Gladly, for to bear Sir Ga- 
waine fellowship. And therewith he set his hand on the 
sword, and drew it strongly, but he might not move it. 
Then were there more that durst be so hardy to set their 135 
hands thereto. Now may ye go to your dinner, said Sir 
Kay unto the king, for a marvellous adventure have ye 
seen. 

So the king and all went unto the court, and every 
knight knew his own place, and set him therein, and 140 
young men that were knights served them. So when 
they were served, and all sieges fulfilled, save only the 
siege perilous, anon there befell a marvellous adventure, 
that all the doors and the windows of the place shut by 
themself. Not for then the hall was not greatly dark- 145 
ened, and therewith they abashed both one and other. 
Then king Arthur spake first, and said. Fair fellows and 
lords, we have seen this day marvels, but or night I sup- 
pose we shall see greater marvels. In the mean while 
came in a good old man, and an ancient, clothed all in 150 
white, and there was no knight knew from whence he 
came. And with him he brought a young knight, both 
on foot, in red arms, without sword or shield, save a 
scabbard hanging by his side. And these words he said, 
Peace be with you, fair lords. Then the old man said 155 
unto Arthur, Sir, I bring here a young knight the which 
is of king's lineage, and of the kindred of Joseph of 
Arimathie, whereby the marvels of this court and of 
strange realms shall be fully accomplished. 

The king was right glad of his words, and said unto 160 
the good man, Sir, ye be right welcome, and the young 
knight with you. Then the old man made the young 



MALORY 33 

man to unarm him ; and he was in a coat of red sendel, 
and bare a mantle upon his shoulder that was furred with 
ermine, and put that upon him. And the old knight 165 
said unto the young knight, Sir, follow me. And anon 
he led him unto the siege perilous, where beside sat Sir 
Launcelot, and the good man lift up the cloth, and found 
there letters that said thus : This is the siege of Galahad 
the haut prince. Sir, said the old knight, wit ye well that 170 
place is yours. And then he set him down surely in that 
siege. And then he said to the old man. Sir, ye may 
now go your way, for well have ye done that ye were 
commanded to do. And recommend me unto my grand- 
sire king Pelles, and say to him on my behalf, I shall 175 
come and see him as soon as ever I may. So the good 
man departed, and there met him twenty noble squires, 
and so took their horses and went their way. Then all 
the knights of the Table Round marvelled them greatly 
of Sir Galahad, that he durst sit there in that siege peril- iSo 
ous, and was so tender of age, and wist not from whence 
he came, but all only by God, and said, This is he by 
whom the Sancgreal shall be achieved, for there sat never 
none but he, but he were mischieved. Then Sir Launce- 
lot beheld his son, and had great joy of him. Then Sir 185 
Bors told his fellows. Upon pain of my life this young 
knight shall come unto great worship. 

This noise was great in all the court, so that it came 
to the queen. Then she had marvel what knight it 
might be that durst adventure him to sit in the siege 190 
perilous. Many said unto the queen, he resembled much 
unto Sir Launcelot. I may well suppose, said the queen, 
that he is son of Sir Launcelot and king Pelles' daughter, 
and his name is Galahad. I would fain see him, said the 
queen, for he must needs be a noble man, for so is his 195 

D 



34 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

father; I report me unto all the Table Round. So when 
the meat was done, that the king and all were risen, the 
king went unto the siege perilous, and lift up the cloth, 
and found there the -name of Galahad, and then he 
shewed it unto Sir Gawaine, and said, Fair nephew, now 200 
have we among us Sir Galahad the good knight, that 
shall worship us all, and upon pain of my life he shall 
achieve the Sancgreal, right so as Sir Launcelot hath 
done us to understand. Then came king Arthur unto 
Galahad, and said, Sir, ye be welcome, for ye shall move 205 
many good knights to the quest of the Sancgreal, and 
ye shall achieve that never knights might bring to an 
end. Then the king took him by the hand, and went 
down from the palace to shew Galahad the adventures of 
the stone. 210 

The queen heard thereof, and came after with many 
ladies, and shewed them the stone where it hoved on the 
water. Sir, said the king unto Sir Galahad, here is a 
great marvel as ever I saw, and right good knights have 
assayed and failed. Sir, said Galahad, that is no marvel, 215 
for this adventure is not theirs, but mine, and for the 
surety of this sword I brought none with me ; for here 
by my side hangeth the scabbard. And anon he laid his 
hand on the sword, and lightly drew it out of the stone, 
and put it in the sheath and said unto the king, Now it 220 
goeth better than it did aforehand. Sir, said the king, a 
shield God shall send you. 



MALORY 35 



The Institution of the Quest 

Now, said the king, I am sure at this quest of the 
Sancgreal shall all ye of the Table Round depart, and 
never shall I see you again whole together, therefore I 
will see you all whole together in the meadow of Came- 
lot, to just and to tourney, that after your death men 5 
may speak of it, that such good knights were wholly 
together such a day. As unto that counsel, and at the 
king's request, they accorded all, and took on their har- 
ness that longed unto justing. But all this moving of 
the king was for this intent, for to see Galahad proved, 10 
for the king deemed he should not lightly come again 
unto the court after his departing. So were they assem- 
bled in the meadow, both more and less. Then Sir 
Galahad, by the prayer of the king and the queen, did 
upon him a noble jesserance, and also he did on his 15 
helm, but shield would he take none for no prayer of the 
king. And then Sir Gawaine and other knights prayed 
him to take a spear. Right so he did; and the queen 
was in a tower with all her ladies for to behold that 
tournament. Then Sir Galahad dressed him in the midst 20 
of the meadow, and began to break spears marvellously, 
that all men had wonder of him, for he there surmounted 
all other knights, for within a while he had thrown down 
many good knights of the Table Round save twain, that 
was Sir Launcelot and Sir Percivale. 25 

And then the king and all estates went home unto 
Camelot, and so went to evensong to the great minster. 
And so after upon that to supper, and every knight sat 
in his own place as they were toforehand. Then anon 
they heard cracking and crying of thunder, that them 30 



36 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

thought the j^lace should all to-drive. In the midst of 
this blast entered a sun-beam more clearer by seven 
times than ever they saw day, and all they were alighted 
of the grace of the Holy Ghost. Then began every 
knight to behold other, and either saw other by their 35 
seeming fairer than ever they saw afore. Not for then 
there was no knight might speak one word a great while, 
and so they looked every man on other, as they had 
been dumb. Then there entered into the hall the holy 
Graile covered with white samite, but there was none 40 
might see it, nor who bare it. And there was all the hall 
fulfilled with good odours, and every knight had such 
meats and drinks as he best loved in this world ; and 
when the holy Graile had been borne through the hall, 
then the holy vessel departed suddenly, that they wist 45 
not where it became. Then had they all breath to 
speak. And then the king yielded thankings unto God 
of his good grace that he had sent them. Certes, said 
the king, we ought to thank our Lord Jesu greatly, for 
that he hath shewed us this day at the reverence of this 50 
high feast of Pentecost. Now, said Sir Gawaine, we have 
been served this day of what meats and drinks we thought 
on, but one thing beguiled us, we might not see the holy 
Graile, it was so preciously covered : wherefore I will 
make here avow, that to-morn, without longer abiding, 55 
I shall labour in the quest of the Sancgreal, that I shall 
hold me out a twelvemonth and a day, or more if need 
be, and never shall I return again unto the court till I 
have seen it more openly than it hath been seen here : 
and if I may not speed, I shall return again as he that 60 
may not be against the will of our Lord Jesu Christ. 
When they of the Table Round heard Sir Gawaine say 
so, they rose up the most party, and made such avows as 
Sir Gawaine had made. 



MALORY 37 

Anon as king Arthur heard this he was greatly dis- 65 
pleased, for he wist well that they might not againsay 
their avows. Alas ! said king Arthur unto Sir Gawaine, 
ye have nigh slain me with the avow and promise that ye 
have made. For through you ye have bereft me of the 
fairest fellowship and the truest of knighthood that ever 70 
were seen together in any realm of the world. For when 
they depart from hence, I am sure they all shall never 
meet more in this world, for they shall die many in the 
quest. And so it forethinketh me a Httle, for I have 
loved them as well as my life, wherefore it shall grieve 75 
me right sore the departition of this fellowship. For I 
have had an old custom to have them in my fellow- 
ship. 

And therewith the tears filled in his eyes. And then 
he said, Gawaine, Gawaine, ye have set me in great sor- 80 
row. For I have great doubt that my true fellowship 
shall never meet here more again. Ah, said Sir Launce- 
lot, comfort yourself, for it shall be unto us as a great 
honour, and much more than if we died in any other 
places, for of death we be sure. Ah Launcelot, said the 85 
king, the great love that I have had unto you all the 
days of my life maketh me to say such doleful words ; 
for never christian king had never so many worthy men 
at this table as I have had this day at the Round Table, 
and that is my great sorrow. When the queen, ladies, 90 
and gentlewomen wist these tidings, they had such sor- 
row and heaviness that there might no tongue tell it, for 
those knights had holden them in honour and charity. 
But among all other queen Guenever made great sorrow. 
I marvel, said she, my lord would suffer them to depart 95 
from him. Thus was all the court troubled, for the love 
of the departition of those knights. And many of those 



38 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ladies that loved knights would have gone with their 
lovers ; and so had they done, had not an old knight 
come among them in religious clothing, and then he loo 
spake all on high and said, Fair lords which have sworn 
in the quest of the Sancgreal, thus sendeth you Nacien 
the hermit word, that none in this quest lead lady nor 
gentlewoman with him, for it is not to do in so high a 
service as they labour in, for I warn you plain, he that is 105 
not clean of his sins he shall not see the mysteries of 
our Lord Jesu Christ ; and for this cause they left these 
ladies and gentlewomen. And then they went to rest 
them. And in the honour of the highness of Galahad he 
was led into king Arthur's chamber and there rested in no 
his own bed. 

And as soon as it was day the king arose, for he had 
no rest of all that night for sorrow. Then he went unto 
Gawaine and to Sir Launcelot, that were arisen for to hear 
mass. And then the king again said, Ah Gawaine, Ga- 115 
waine, ye have betrayed me. For never shall my court 
be amended by you, but ye will never be sorry for me as 
I am for you. And therewith the tears began to run 
down by his visage. And therewith the king said. Ah, 
knight. Sir Launcelot, I require thee thou counsel me, for 120 
I would that this quest were undone, and it might be. 
Sir, said Sir Launcelot, ye saw yesterday so many worthy 
knights that then were sworn, that they may not leave it 
in no manner of wise. That wot I well, said the king, 
but it shall so heavy me at their departing, that I wot 125 
well there shall no manner of joy remedy me. And then 
the king and the queen went unto the minster. So anon 
Launcelot and Gawaine commanded their men to bring 
their arms. And when they all were armed, save their 
shields and their helms, then they came to their fellow- 130 



MALORY 39 

ship, which all were ready in the same wise for to go to 
the minster to hear their service. 

Then after the service was done, the king would wit 
how many had taken the quest of the holy Grail e, and to 
account them he prayed them all. Then found they by 135 
tale an hundred and fifty, and all were knights of the 
Round Table. And then they put on their helms, and 
departed, and recommended them all wholly unto the 
the queen, and there was weeping and great sorrow. 
Then the queen departed into her chamber so that no 140 
man should perceive her great sorrows. When Sir Laun- 
celot missed the queen he went into her chamber, and 
when she saw him she cried aloud, O Sir Launcelot, ye 
have betrayed me and put me to death, for to leave thus 
my lord. Ah, madani, said Sir Launcelot, I pray you be 145 
not displeased, for I shall come again as soon as I may 
with my worship. Alas, said she, that ever I saw you ! 
but He that suffered death upon the cross for all man- 
kind, be to your good conduct and safety, and all the 
whole fellowship. Right so departed Sir Launcelot, and 150 
found his fellowship that abode his coming. And so they 
mounted upon their horses, and rode through the streets 
of Camelot, and there was weeping of the rich and poor, 
and the king turned away, and might not speak for weep- 
ing. So within a while they came to a city and a castle 155 
that hight Vagon : there they entered into the castle, and 
the lord of that castle was an old man that hight Vagon, 
and he was a good man of his living, and set open the 
gates, and made them all the good cheer that he might. 
And so on the morrow they were all accorded that they 160 
should depart every each from other. And then they de- 
parted on the morrow with weeping and mourning cheer, 
and every knight took the way that him best liked. 



JOHN LYLY 

(1553-1606) 

APELLES' SONG 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 

At cards for kisses — Cupid paid. 

He stakes his quiver, bows, and arrows. 

His mother's doves and team of sparrows : 

Loses them too ; then down he throws 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how) 

With these the crystal of his brow. 

And then the dimple of his chin — 

All these did my Campaspe win. 

At last he set her both his eyes. — 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love, has she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas ! become of me ? 



SAPPHO'S SONG 

O CRUEL Love ! on thee I lay 
My curse, which shall strike blind the day ; 
Never may sleep with velvet hand 
Charm thine eyes with sacred wand ; 
Thy jailors still be hopes and fears ; 
Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears ; 

40 



LYLY 41 

Thy play to wear out weary times, 

Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes ; 

Thy bread be frowns ; thy drink be gall ; 

Such as when you Phao call 10 

The bed thou liest on by despair ; 

Thy sleep, fond dreams ; thy dreams, long care ; 

Hope (like thy fool) at thy bed's head. 

Mock thee, till madness strikes thee dead. 

As Phao, thou dost me, with thy proud eyes. 15 

In thee poor Sappho lives, in thee she dies. 



PAN^S SONG 

Pan's Syrinx was a girl indeed, 
Though now she's turned into a reed. 
From that dear reed Pan's pipe doth come, 
A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb ; 
Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can 
So chant it, as the pipe of Pan. 
Cross-gartered swains, and dairy girls, 
With faces smug and round as pearls, 
When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play. 
With dancing wear out night and day ; 
The bag-pipe drone his hum lays by 
When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy. 
His minstrelsy ! O base ! This quill 
Which at my mouth with wind I fill 
Puts me in mind though her I miss 
That still my Syrinx' lips I kiss. 



42 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

EUPHUES AND HIS ENGLAND 

Euplmes Glass e for Europe 

O DIVINE nature, O heavenly nobilitie, what thing can 
there more be required in a Prince then in greatest 
power to shewe greatest patience, in chiefest glorye to 
bring forth chiefest grace, in abundaunce of all earthlye 
pom[p]e to manifest aboundaunce of all heavenlye pietie: 5 

fortunate England that hath such a Queene, ungrate- 
full, if thou praye not for hir, wicked, if thou do not love 
hir, miserable, if thou loose hir. 

Heere, Ladies, is a Glasse for all Princes to behold, 
that being called to dignitie, they use moderation, not 10 
might, tempering the severitie of the lawes with the mild- 
nes of love, not executing al[l] they wil, but shewing what 
they may. Happy are they, and onely they, that are under 
this glorious and gracious Sovereigntie ; insomuch that I 
accompt all those abjects, that be not hir subjectes. 15 

But why doe I treade still in one path, when I have so 
large a fielde to walke, or lynger about one flower, when 

1 have manye to gather : where-in I resemble those that, 
beeinge delighted with the little brooke, neglect the foun- 
taines head, or that painter that, being curious to coulour 20 
Cupids Bow, forgot to paint the string. 

As this noble Prince is endued with mercie, pacience, 
and moderation, so is she adourned with singuler beau tie 
and chastitie, excelling in the one Venus, in the other 
Vesta. Who knoweth not how rare a thing it is. Ladies, 25 
to match virginitie with beautie, a chast[e] minde with 
an amiable face, divine cogitations with a comelye coun- 
tenaunce ? But suche is the grace bestowed uppon this 



LYLY 43 

earthlye Goddesse, that, having the beautie that myght 
allure all Princes, she hath the chastitie also to refuse all, 30 
accounting [accompting] it no lesse praise to be called 
a Virgin, then to be esteemed a Venus, thinking it as 
great honour to bee found chast[e], as thought amiable. 
Where is now Ekctra, the chast[e] Daughter of Aga- 
meninon? Where is Lala, that renoumed Virgin? Wher 35 
is Aeniiiia, that through hir chastitie wrought wonders, in 
maintayning continuall fire at the Altar of Vesta ? Where 
is Claudia, that to manifest hir virginitie set the Shippe 
on float with hir finger, that multitudes could not remove 
by force? Where is Tuscia, one of the same order, that 40 
brought to passe no lesse mervailes by carrying water in a 
sive, not shedding one drop from Tiber to the Temple of 
Vesta ? If Virginitie have such force, then what hath 
this chast Virgin Elizabetli don[e], who by the space of 
twenty and odde yeares with continuall peace against all 45 
pohcies, with sundry myracles contrary to all hope, hath 
governed that noble Island? xA^gainst whome neyther 
forre[i]n force, nor civill fraude, neyther discorde at 
home, nor conspiracies abroad, could prevaile. What 
greater mervaile hath happened since the beginning of 50 
the world, then for a young and tender Maiden to govern 
strong and valiaunt menne, then for a Virgin to make the 
whole worlde, if not to stand in awe of hir, yet to honour 
hir, yea and to five in spight of all those that spight hir, 
with hir sword in the she[a]th, with hir armour in the 55 
Tower, with hir souldiers in their gownes, insomuch as 
hir peace may be called more blessed then the quiet 
raigne of Numa Ponipilius, in whose government the 
Bees have made their hives in the soldiers helmettes? 
Now is the Temple of Janus removed from Rome to 60 
England, whose dore hath not bene opened this twentie 



44 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

yeares, more to be mervayled at then the regiment of 
Debora, who ruled twentie yeares with rehgion, or Seme- 
riamis \_Semyrainis\ that governed long with power, or 
Zenobia, that reigned six yeares in prosperitie. 65 

This is the onelye myracle that virginitie ever wrought, 
for a little Island environed round about with warres to 
stande in peace, for the walles of Fraunce to burne, and 
the houses of England to freese, for all other nations 
eyther with civile [cruell] sworde to bee devided, or with 70 
forren foes to be invaded, and that countrey neyther to 
be molested with broyles in their owne bosomes, nor 
threatned with blasts of other borderers : But alwayes 
though not laughing, yet looking through an Emeraud 
at others jarres. 75 

Their fields have beene sowne with come, straungers 
theirs pytched with Camps ; they have their men reaping 
their harvest, when others are mustring in their harneis ; 
they use their peeces to fowle for pleasure, others their 
Calivers for feare of perrill. O blessed peace, oh happy 80 
Prince, O fortunate people : The lyving God is onely the 
Enghsh God, wher[e] he hath placed peace, which bryng- 
eth all plentie, annoynted a Virgin Queene, which with a 
wand ruleth hir owne subjects, and with hir worthinesse 
winneth the good willes of straungers, so that she is no 85 
lesse gratious among hir own, then glorious to others, no 
lesse loved of hir people, then merva[i]led at of other 
nations. 

This is the blessing that Christ alwayes gave to his 
people, peace : This is the curse that hee giveth to the 90 
wicked, there shall bee no peace to the ungodlye : This 
was the onely salutation hee used to his Disciples, /^^(Ti? 
be unto you : And therefore is hee called the G O D of 
love, and peace in hoUye [holy] writte. 



LYLY 45 

In peace was the Temple of the Lorde buylt by Salo- 95 
mon, Christ would not be borne untill there were peace 
through-out the whole worlde, this was the only thing that 
Esechias prayed for, let there be trueth and peace, O 
Lorde, in my dayes. All which examples doe manifestly 
prove, that ther[e] can be nothing given of God to man too 
more notable than peace. 

This peace hath the Lorde continued with great and 
unspeakeable goodnesse amonge his chosen people oi Eng- 
land. How much is that nation bounde to such a Prince, 
by whome they enjoye all benefits of peace, having their 105 
barnes full, when others famish, their cof[f]ers stuffed 
with gold, when others have no silver, their wives without 
daunger, when others are defamed, their daughters chast, 
when others are defloured, theyr houses furnished, when 
others are fired, where they have all thinges for superflu- no 
itie, others nothing to sustaine their neede. This peace 
hath God given for hir vertues, pittie, moderation, virgin- 
itie, which peace, the same God of peace continue for his 
names sake. 

Touching the beautie of this Prince, hir countenaunce, 115 
hir personage, hir majestic, I can-not thinke that it may 
be sufficiently commended, when it can-not be too much 
mervailed at : So that I am constrained to saye as Prax- 
itiles did, when hee beganne to paynt Venus and hir Sonne, 
who doubted whether the worlde could affoorde coulours 120 
good enough for two such fayre faces, and I whether our 
tongue canne yeelde wordes to blase that beautie, the 
perfection where-of none canne imagine, which seeing it 
is so, I must doe like those that want a cleere sight, who 
being not able to discern e the Sunne in the Skie are in- 125 
forced to beholde it in the water. Zeuxis having before 
him fiftie faire virgins of Sparta where by to draw one 



46 FROM CHAUCER rO ARNOLD 

amiable Venus, said that fiftie more fayrer than those 
collide not minister sufficient beautie to shewe the God- 
esse of beautie ; therefore being in dispaire either by art 130 
to shadow hir, or by imagination to comprehend hir, he 
drew in a table a faire temple, the gates open, and Venus 
going in, so as nothing coulde be perceived but hir backe, 
wherein he used such cunning that Appelles himselfe see- 
ing this worke, wished yat Venus woulde turne hir face, 135 
saying yat if it were in all partes agreeable to the backe, . 
he woulde become apprentice to Zeuxis, and slave to 
Venus. In the like manner fareth it with me, for having 
all the Ladyes in Italy more than fiftie hundered, whereby 
to coulour Elizabeth, I must say with Zeuxis, that as 140 
many more will not suffise, and therefore in as great an 
agonie paint hir court with hir back towards you, for yat 
I cannot by art portraie hir beautie, wherein though I 
want the skill to doe it as Zeuxis did, yet v[i]ewing it 
narrowly, and comparing it wisely, you all will say yat if 145 
hir face be aunswerable to hir backe, you wil[l] like my 
handi-crafte, and become hir handmaides. In the meane 
season I leave you gazing untill she turne hir face, imag- 
ining hir to be such a one as nature framed to yat end, 
that no art should imitate, wherein shee hath proved hir 150 
selfe to bee exquisite, and painters to be Apes. 

This Beautifull moulde when I behelde to be endued 
with chastitie, temperance, mildnesse, and all other good 
giftes of nature (as hereafter shall appeare) when I saw 
hir to surpasse all in beautie, and yet a virgin, to excell 155 
all in pietie, and yet a prince, to be inferiour to none in 
all the liniaments of the bodie, and yet superiour to every 
one in all giftes of the minde, I beegan thus to pray, that 
as she hath lived fortie yeares a virgin in great majestie, 
so she may lyve fourescore yeares a mother with great 160 



L YL Y 47 

joye, that as with hir we have long time hadde peace and 
plentie, so by hir we may ever have quietness e and aboun- 
daunce, wishing this even from the bottome of a heart 
that wisheth well to E?igla?id, though feareth ill, that 
either the world may ende before she dye, or she lyve 165 
to see hir childrens children in the world : otherwise, 
how tickle their state is yat now triumph, upon what a 
twist they hang that now are in honour, they yat lyve shal 
see which I to thinke on sigh. But God for his mercies 
sake, Christ for his merits sake, ye holy Ghost for his 170 
names sake, graunt to that realme comfort without anye 
ill chaunce, and the Prince they have without any other 
chaunge, that ye longer she liveth the sweeter she may 
smell, lyke the bird Idis, that she maye be triumphant in 
victories lyke the Palme tree, fruitfull in hir age lyke the 175 
Vyne, in all ages prosperous, to all men gratious, in all 
places glorious : so that there be no ende of hir praise, 
untill the ende of all flesh. 

Thus did I often talke with my selfe, and wishe with 
mine whole soule [heart]. 180 

What should I talke of hir sharpe wit, excellent wis- 
dome, exquisite learning, and all other qualities of the 
minde, where-in she seemeth as farre to excell those that 
have bene accompted singular, as the learned have sur- 
passed those that have bene thought simple? 1S5 

In questioning not inferiour to NicaiUia the Queene of 
Saba, that did put so many hard doubts to Salomon, 
equall to Nicosi7'ata in the Greeke tongue, who was 
thought to give percepts for the better perfection : more 
learned in the Latine than Amalasunta : passing Aspasia 190 
in Philosophic, who taught Pericles : exceeding in judge- 
ment lliemistoclea, who instructed Pithagoras, adde to 
these qualyties those that none of these had, the French 



48 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

tongue, the Spanish, the Italian, not meane in every one, 
but excellent m all, readyer to correct escapes in those 195 
languages, then to be controlled, fitter to teach others, 
then learne of anye, more able to adde new rules, then 
to err in ye olde : Insomuch as there is no Embassadour 
that commeth into hir court, but she is wiUing and able 
both to understand his message, and utter hir minde, not 200 
lyke unto ye Kings oi Assiria, who aunswere[d] Embas- 
sades by messengers, while they themselves either dally 
in sinne, or snort in sleepe. Hir godly zeale to learning, 
with hir great skil, hath bene so manifestly approved, yat 
I cannot tell whether she deserve more honour for hir 205 
knowledge, or admiration for hir curtesie, who in great 
pompe hath twice directed hir Progresse unto the Uni- 
versities, with no lesse joye to the Students then glory to 
hir State. Where, after long and solempne disputations 
in Law, Phisicke, and Divinitie, not as one we[a]ried2io 
with Scholers arguments, but wedded to their orations, 
when every one feared to offend in length, she in hir own 
person, with no lesse praise to hir Majestic, then delight 
to hir subjects, with a wise and learned conclusion, both 
gave them thankes, and put selfe to paines. O noble 215 
patterne of a princelye minde, not hke to ye kings of 
Persia, who in their progresses did nothing els but cut 
stickes to drive away the time, nor like ye delicate lives 
of the Sybarites, who would not admit any Art to be exer- 
cised within their citie, yat might make ye least noyse. 220 
Hir wit so sharp, that if I should repeat the apt aun- 
sweres, ye subtil questions, ye fine speaches, ye pithie 
sentences, which on ye sodain she hath uttered, they 
wold rather breed admiration then credit. But such are 
ye gifts yat ye living God hath indued hir with-all, that 225 
looke in what Arte or Language, wit or learning, vertue 



LYLY 49 

or beautie, any one hath particularly excelled most, she 
onely hath generally exceeded every one in al, insomuch 
that there is nothing to bee added, that either man would 
wish in a woman, or God doth give to a creature. 230 

I let passe hir skill in Musicke, hir knowledg[e] in 
al[l] ye other sciences, when as I feare least by my sim- 
plicity I shoulde make them lesse than they are, in seek- 
ing to shew howe great they are, unlesse I were praising 
hir in the gallerie of Olympia, where g)^ing forth one 235 
worde, I might heare seven. 

But all these graces although they be to be wondered 
at, yet hir pohtique governement, hir prudent counsaile, 
hir zeale to religion, hir clemencie to those that submit, 
hir stoutnesse to those that threaten, so farre exceede all 240 
other vertues that they are more easie to be mervailed at 
then imitated. 

Two and twentie yeares hath she borne the sword 
with such justice that neither offenders coulde complaine 
of rigour, nor the innocent of wrong, yet so tempered 245 
with mercie, as malefactours have beene sometimes par- 
doned upon hope of grace, and the injured requited to 
ease their griefe, insomuch that in ye whole course of hir 
glorious raigne, it coulde never be saide that either the 
poore were oppressed without remedie, or the guiltie re- 250 
pressed without cause, bearing this engraven in hir noble 
heart, that justice without mercie were extreame injurie, 
and pittie without equitie plaine partialitie, and that it 
is as great tyranny not to mitigate Laws as iniquitie to 
break e them. 255 

Hir care for the flourishing of the Gospell hath wel 
appeared, whenas neither the curses of the Pope (which 
are blessings to good people), nor the threatenings of 
kings (which are perillous to a Prince), nor the perswa- 



50 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

sions of Papists (which are honny to the mouth), could 260 
either feare hir, or allure hir, to violate the holy league 
contracted with Christ, or to maculate the blood of the 
aunciente Lambe, whiche is Christ. But alwayes con- 
staunt in the true fayth, she hath to the exceeding joye 
of hir subjectes, to the unspeakeable comforte of hir 265 
soule, to the great glorye of God, establyshed that relig- 
ion, the mayntenance where-of shee rather seeketh to 
confirme by fortitude, then leave off for feare, knowing 
that there is nothing that smelleth sweeter to the Lorde 
then a sounde spirite, which neyther the hostes of the 270 
ungodlye, nor the horror of death, can eyther remo[o]ve 
or move. 

This Gospell with invincible courage, with rare con- 
stancie, with hotte zeale shee hath maintained in hir 
owne countries with-out chaunge, and defended against 275 
all kingdomes that sought chaunge, in-somuch that all 
nations rounde about hir, threatninge alteration, shaking 
swordes, throwing fyre, menacing famyne, murther, de- 
struction, desolation, shee onely hath stoode like a Lampe 
[Lambe] on the toppe of a hill, not fearing the blastes of 280 
the sharpe winds, but trusting in his providence that 
rydeth uppon the winges of the foure windes. Next 
folio weth the love shee beareth to hir subjectes, who no 
lesse tendereth them then the apple of hir owne eye, 
shewing hir selfe a mother to the a[f]flicted, a Phisi-285 
tion to the sicke, a Sovereigne and mylde Governesse 
to all. 

Touchinge hir Magnanimitie, hir Majestic, hir Estate 
royall, there was neyther Alexander, nor Galba the Em- 
perour, nor any that might be compared with hir. 290 

This is she that, resembling the noble Queene of 
Navan^e^ useth the Marigolde for hir flower, which 



LYLY 51 

at the rising of the Sunne openeth hir leaves, and at the 
setting shiittetli them, referring all hir actions and endev- 
ours to him that ruleth the Sunne. This is that diisarzc,'^ 
that first bound the Crocodile to the Palme tree, bridling 
those that sought to raine [rayne] hir : This is that good 
Pelican that to feede hir people spareth not to rend hir 
ovvne personne : This is that mightie Eagle, that hath 
throwne dust into the eyes of the Hart, that went about 300 
to worke destruction to hir subjectes, into whose wings 
although the blinde Beetle would have crept, and so 
being carryed into hir nest, destroyed hir young ones, yet 
hath she with the vertue of hir fethers, consumed that 
flye in his owne fraud. 305 

She hath exiled the Swallowe that sought to spoyle 
the Grashopper, and given bytter Almondes to the rav- 
enous Wolves that ende[a]vored to devoure the silly 
Lambes, burning even with the breath of hir mouth like 
ye princ[e]ly Stag, the serpents yat wer[e] engendred3io 
by the breath of the huge Elephant, so that now all hir 
enimies are as whist as the bird Attagen, who never sing- 
eth any tune after she is taken, nor they beeing so over- 
taken. 

But whether do I wade, Ladyes, as one forgetting him- 315 
selfe, thinking to sound the dep[t]h of hir vertues with a 
few fadomes, when there is no bottome : For I knowe not 
how it commeth to passe that, being in this Laborinth, I 
may sooner loose my selfe then finde the ende. 

Beholde, Ladyes, in this Glasse a Queene, a woeman, 320 
a Virgin in all giftes of the bodye, in all graces of the 
minde, in all perfection of eyther, so farre to excell all 
men, that I know not whether I may thinke the place 
too badde for hir to dwell amonge men. 

To talke of other thinges in that Court, wer[e] to 325 



52 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

bring Egges after apples, or after the setting out of the 
Sunne, to tell a tale of a Shaddow. 

But this I saye, that all offyces are looked to with great 
care, that vertue is embraced of all, vice hated, religion 
daily encreased, manners reformed, that who so seeth the 330 
place there, will thinke it rather a Church for divine ser- 
vice, then a Court for Princes delight. 

This is the Glasse, Ladies, wher-in I woulde have you 
gase, wher-in I tooke my whole delight ; imitate the 
Ladyes in England, amende your manners, rubbe out 335 
the wrinckles of the minde, and be not curious about 
the weams in the face. As for their Elizabeth, sith you 
can neyther sufficiently mervaile at hir, nor I prayse hir, 
let us all pray for hir, which is the onely duetie we can 
performe, and the greatest that we can proffer. 340 

Yours to commaund 

EUPHUES. 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

(1554-1586) 

ARCADIA 

TO MY DEAR LADY AND SISTER, THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 

Here now have you, most dear, and most worthy to be 
most dear, Lady, this idle work of mine, which I fear, 
Hke the spider's web, will be thought litter to be swept 
away than worn to any other purpose. For my part, in 
very truth, as the cruel fathers among the Greeks were 5 
wont to do to the babes they would not foster, I could 
well find in my heart to cast out in some desert of for- 
getfulness this child, which I am loth to father. But you 
desired me to do it ; and your desire, to my heart, is an 
absolute commandment. Now it is done only for you, 10 
only to you. If you keep it to yourself, or to such friends 
who will weigh errors in the balance of good will, I hope, 
for the father's sake, it will be pardoned, perchance 
made much of, though in itself it have deformities ; for, 
indeed, for severer eyes it is not, being but a trifle, and 15 
that triflingly handled. Your dear self can best witness 
the manner, being done in loose sheets of paper, most of 
it in your presence, the rest by sheets sent unto you as 
fast as they were done. In sum, a young head, not so 
well staged as I would it were, and shall be when God 20 
will, having many, many fancies begotten in it, if it had 
not been in some way delivered, would have growui a 

53 



54 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

monster, and more sorry might I be that they come in 

than that they gat out. But his chief safety shall be the 

not walking abroad, and his chief protection the bearing 25 

the livery of your name, which, if much good will do not 

deceive me, is worthy to be a sanctuary for a greater 

offender. This say I because I know the virtue so ; and 

this say I because it will be ever so. Read it, then, at 

your idle times, and the follies your good judgment will 30 

find in it blame not, but laugh at ; and so, looking for 

no better stuff than, as in a haberdasher's shop, glasses 

or feathers, you will continue to love the writer, who 

doth exceedingly love you, and most, most heartily prays 

you may long live to a principal ornament to the family 35 

of the Sidneys. 

Your loving Brother 

Philip Sidney. 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 

WRITTEN BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

Strephon and Clauis 

It was in the time that the Earth begins to put on her 
new apparel against the approach of her lover, and that 
the sun running a most even course becomes an indiffer- 
ent arbiter between the night and the day, when the 
hopeless shepherd Strephon was come to the lands which 5 
He against the island of Cithera, where, viewing the place 
with a heavy kind of delight, and sometimes casting his 
eyes to the isleward, he called his friendly rival the pastor 
Clauis unto him ; and setting first down in his darkened 
countenance a doleful copy of what he would speak, " O 10 
my Clauis," said he, "hither we are now come to pay the 



SIDNEY 55 

rent for which we are so called unto by ever-busy re- 
membrance ; remembrance, restless remembrance, which 
claims not only this duty of us but first will have us for- 
get ourselves. I pray you, when we were amid our flock, 15 
and that, of other shepherds, some were running after 
their sheep, strayed beyond their bounds ; some delight- 
ing their eyes with seeing them nibble upon the short and 
sweet grass, some medicining their sick ewes, some set- 
ting a bell for an ensign of a sheepish squadron, some 20 
with more leisure inventing new games of exercising their 
bodies and sporting their wits, — did remembrance grant 
us any hoHday, either for pastime or devotion, nay either 
for necessary food or natural rest, but that still it forced 
our thoughts to work upon this place, where we last, — 25 
alas, that the word ' last ' should so long last, — did grace 
our eyes her ever flourishing beauty ; did it not still cry 
within us : ' Ah, you base-minded wretches ! are your 
thoughts so deeply bemired in the trade of ordinary world- 
lings as, for respect of gain some paltry wool may yield 30 
you, to let so much time pass without knowing perfectly 
her estate, especially in so troublesome a season ; to 
leave that shore unsaluted from whence you may see to 
the island where she dwelleth ; to leave these steps un- 
kissed wherein Urania printed the farewell of all beauty ? ' 35 
Well, then, remembrance commanded, we obeyed, and 
here we find, that as our remembrance came ever clothed 
unto us as in the form of this place, so this place gives 
new heat to the fever of our languishing remembrance. 
Yonder, my Clauis, Urania lighted ; the very horse me- 40 
thought bewailed to be so disburdened ; and as for thee, 
poor Clauis, when thou wentest to help her down, and 
saw reverence and desire so divide thee that thou didst at 
one instant both blush and quake, and instead of bearing 



56 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

her wert ready to fall down thyself. There she sate, 45 
vouchsafing niy cloak (then most gorgeous) under her ; 
at yonder rising of the ground she turned herself, looking 
back toward her wonted abode, and because of her part- 
mg, bearing much sorrow in her eyes, the lightsomeness 
whereof had yet so natural a cheerfulness as it made even 50 
sorrow seem to smile ; at that turning she spake to us all, 
opening her cherry lips, and, Lord ! how greedily mine 
ears did feed upon the sweet words she uttered ! And 
here she laid her hand over thine eyes when she saw the 
tears springing in them, as if she would conceal them 55 
from other and yet herself feel some of thy sorrow. But 
woe is me ! Yonder, yonder, did she put her foot into the 
boat, at that instant, as it were, dividing her heavenly 
beauty between the earth and the sea. But when she 
was embarked did you not mark how the winds whistled, 60 
and the seas danced for joy ; how the sails did swell with 
pride, and all because they had Urania. O Urania, blessed 
be thou, Urania, the sweetest fairness and fairest sweet- 
ness ! " 

With that word his voice brake so with sobbing that he 65 
could say no further; and Clauis thus answered, "Alas, my 
Strephon," said he, " what needs this score to reckon up 
only our losses? What doubt is there but that the sight of 
this place doth clear our thoughts to appear at the Court 
of Affection, held by that racking steward Remembrance ? 70 
As well may sheep forget to fear when they spy wolves, as 
we can miss such fancies, when we see any place made 
happy by her treading. Who can choose that saw her 
but think where she stayed, where she walked, where she 
turned, where she spoke ? But what is all this ? Truly no 75 
more but, as this place served us to think of those things, 
so those things serve as places to call to memory more 



SIDNEY 57 

excellent matters. No, no, let us think with considera- 
tion, and consider with acknowledging, and acknowledge 
with admiration, and admire with love, and love with joy 8& 
in the midst of all woes ; let us in such sort think, I say, 
that our poor eyes were so enriched as to behold, and 
our low hearts so exalted as to love, a maid who is 
such, that as the greatest thing in the world can show is 
her beauty, so the least thing that may be praised in her 85 
is her beauty. Certainly as her eyelids are more pleasant 
to behold than two white kids climbing up a fair tree, and 
browsing on his tenderest branches, and yet are nothing 
compared to the day-shining stars contained in them ; 
and as her breath is more sweet than a gentle south-west 90 
wind, which comes creeping over flowery fields and 
shadowed waters in the extreme heat of summer, and 
yet is nothing compared to the honey-flowing speech that 
breath doth carry, — no more ah that our eyes can see of 
her, — though when they have seen her, what else they 95 
shall ever see is but dry stubble after clover-grass — is to 
be matched with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up 
delightfully in that best-builded fold. But, indeed, as we 
can better consider the sun's beauty by marking how he 
gilds these waters and mountains than by looking upon his 100 
own face, too glorious for our weak eyes ; so it may be our 
conceits — not able to bear her sun-staining excellency — 
will better weigh it by her work upon some meaner object 
employed. And, alas, who can better witness that than 
we, whose experience is grounded upon feeling ? Hath 105 
not the only love of her made us, being silly ignorant shep- 
herds, raise up our thoughts above the ordinary level of 
the world, so as great clerks do not disdain our confer- 
ence? Hath not the desire to seem worthy in her eyes 
made us, when others were sleeping, to sit viewing the no 



58 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

course of the heavens ; when others were running at 
base, to run over learned writings ; when others mark 
their sheep, we to mark ourselves? Hath not she thrown 
reason upon our desires, and, as it were, given eyes unto 
Cupid? Hath in any, but in her, love-fellowship main- 115 
tained friendship between rivals and beauty taught the 
beholders chastity?" 

Pamela and Philoclea 

His wife in grave matron-hke attire, with countenance 
and gesture suitable, and of such fairness, being in the 
strength of her age, as, if her daughters had not been 
by, might with just price have purchased admiration ; 
but they being there, it was enough that the most dainty 5 
eye would think her a worthy mother of such children. 
The fair Pamela, whose noble heart, I find, doth greatly 
disdain that the trust of her virtue is reposed in such a 
lout's hands as Dameta's, had yet, to show an obedience, 
taken on shepherdish apparel, which was but of russet 10 
cloth, cut after their fashion, with a straight body, open- 
breasted, the nether parts full of plaits, with long and 
wide sleeves ; but, beheve me, she did apparel her ap- 
parel, and with the preciousness of her body make it 
most sumptuous. Her hair at the full length, wound 15 
about with gold lace, only by the comparison to show 
how far her hair doth excel in color ; betwixt her breasts 
there hung a very rich diamond set between a black 
horn ; the word I have since read is this, ' Yet still my- 
self.' And thus particularly have I described them, 20 
because you may know that mine eyes are not so partial 
but that I marked them too. 

But when the ornament of the earth, the model of 



SIDNEY 59 

heaven, the triumph of nature, the Hfe of beauty, the 
queen of love, young Philoclea, appeared, in her nymph- 25 
Hke apparel, her hair (alas, too poor a word, why should 
I not rather call them her beams?) drawn up into a net 
able to have caught Jupiter when he was in the form of 
an eagle, her body (O sweet body ! ) covered with a light 
taffeta garment, with the caste of her black eyes, black 30 
indeed, whither nature so made them that we might be 
the more able to behold and bear their wonderful shining, 
or that she, goddess-like, would work this miracle with 
herself, in giving blackness the price above all beauty, — 
then, I say, indeed methought the lilies grew pale for 35 
envy, the roses methought blushed to see sweeter roses 
in her cheeks, and the clouds gave place that the heavens 
might more freely smile upon her ; at the least the clouds 
of my thoughts quite vanished, and my sight, then more 
clear and forcible than ever, was so fixed there that I 40 
imagine I stood like a well-wrought image, with some life 
in show, but none in practice. And so had I been like 
enough, to have stayed long time, but that Gynecia, 
stepping between my sight and the only Philoclea, the 
change of object made me recover my senses ; so that I 45 
could with reasonable good manner receive the salutation 
of her and the Princess Pamela, doing them yet no 
further reverence than one princess useth to another. 
But when I came to the never-enough praised Philoclea, 
I could not but fall down on my knees, and taking by 50 
force her hand, and kissing it, I must confess with more 
than womanly ardency, ' Divine lady,' said I, * let not 
the world, nor these great princesses marvel to see me, 
contrary to my manner, do this special honor unto you, 
since all, both men and women, do owe this to the per- 55 
fection of your beauty.' But she, blushing like a fair 



60 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

morning in May, at this my singularity, and causing me 
to rise, ' Noble lady,' said she, ' it is no marvel to see 
your judgment much mistaken in my beauty, since you 
begin with so great an error as to do more honor unto 60 
me than to them to whom I myself owe all service.' 
' Rather,' answered I, with a bowed-down countenance, 
' that shows the power of your beauty, which forced me 
to do such an error, if it were an error.' 'You are so 
well acquainted,' said she, sweetly, most sweetly smiling, 65 
*with your own beauty, that it makes you easily fall into 
the discourse of beauty.' * Beauty in me ? ' said I, truly 
sighing ; ' alas if there be any, it is in my eyes, which 
your blessed presence hath imparted into them.' 



AN APOLOGIE FOR POETRIE 
The Poet 

Among the Romans a poet was called vates, which is as 
much as a diviner, foreseer, or prophet, as by his con- 
joined words, vaticiniiim and vaticinaii^ is manifest ; 
so heavenly a title did that excellent people bestow upon 
this heart-ravishing knowledge. And so far were they 
carried into the admiration thereof, that they thought in 
the chanceable hitting upon any such verses great fore- 
tokens of their following fortunes were placed ; where- 
upon grew the word of Soi'tes Vij-giliance, when by 
sudden opening Virgil's book they hghted upon some 
verse of his making. Whereof the Histories of the Em- 
perors' Lives are full : as of Albinus, the governor of our 
island, who in his childhood met with this verse, 

Arma amens capio, nee sat rationis in armis, 



SIDNEY 6 1 

and in his age performed it. Although it were a very 15 
vain and godless superstition, as also it was to think that 
spirits were commanded by such verses — whereupon 
this word charms, derived of caj-inina, cometh — so yet 
serveth it to show the great reverence those wits were 
held in, and altogether not without ground, since both 20 
the oracles of Delphos and Sibylla's prophecies were 
wholly delivered in verses ; for that some exquisite ob- 
serving of number and measure in words, and that high- 
flying liberty of conceit proper to the poet, did seem to 
have some divine force in it. 25 

And may I not presume a little further to show the 
reasonableness of this word vates, and say that the holy 
David's Psalms are a divine poem ? If I do, I shall not 
do it without the testimony of great learned men, both 
ancient and modern. But even the name of Psalms will 30 
speak for me, which, being interpreted, is nothing but 
Songs ; then, that it is fully written in metre, as all 
learned Hebricians agree, although the rules be not yet 
fully found ; lastly and principally, his handling his proph- 
ecy, which is merely poetical. For what else is the awak- 35 
ing his musical instruments, the often and free changing 
of persons, his notable prosopopoeias, when he maketh 
you, as it were, see God coming in His majesty, his tell- 
ing of the beasts' joyfulness and hills' leaping, but a 
heavenly poesy, wherein almost he showeth himself a 40 
passionate lover of that unspeakable and everlasting 
beauty to be seen by the eyes of the mind, only cleared 
by. faith? But truly now having named him, I fear I 
seem to profane that holy name, applying it to poetry, 
which is among us thrown down to so ridiculous an esti- 45 
mation. But they that with quiet judgments will look 
a little deeper into it, shall find the end and working of 



62 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

it such as, being rightly apphed, deserveth not to be 
scourged out of the church of God. 

But now let us see how the Greeks named it and 50 
how they deemed of it. The Greeks called him TroLrjrrjv, 
which name hath, as the most excellent, gone through 
other languages. It cometh of this word ■notelv, which 
is " to make " ; wherein I know not whether by luck or 
wisdom we Englishmen have met with the Greeks in 55 
calling him a maker. Which name how high and incom- 
parable a title it is, I had rather were known by mark- 
ing the scope of other sciences than by any partial 
allegation. There is no art delivered unto mankind that 
hath not the works of nature for his principal object, 60 
without which they could not consist, and on which they 
so depend as they become actors and players, as it were, 
of what nature will have set forth. So doth the astron- 
omer look upon the stars, and, by that he seeth, set down 
what order nature hath taken therein. So do the geome- 65 
trician and arithmetician in their divers sorts of quantities. 
So doth the musician in times tell you which by nature 
agree, which not. The natural philosopher thereon hath 
his name, and the moral philosopher standeth upon the 
natural virtues, vices, and passions of man ; and '' follow 70 
nature," saith he, "therein, and thou shalt not err." 
The lawyer saith what men have determined, the his- 
torian what men have done. The grammarian speaketh 
only of the rules of speech, and the rhetorician and logi- 
cian, considering what in nature will soonest prove and 75 
persuade, thereon give artificial rules, which still are com-, 
passed within the circle of a question, according to the 
proposed matter. The physician weigheth the nature of 
man's body, and the nature of things helpful or hurt- 
ful unto it. And the metaphysic, though it be in the So 



SIDNEY 63 

second and abstract notions, and therefore be counted 
supernatural, yet doth he, indeed, build upon the depth 
of nature. 

Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such sub- 
jection, lifted up with the vigor of his own invention, 85 
doth grow, in effect, into another nature, in making 
things either better than nature bringeth forth, or, quite 
anew, forms such as never were in nature, as the heroes, 
demi-gods, cyclops, chimeras, furies, and such hke ; so 
as he goeth hand in hand with nature, not enclosed 90 
within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely rang- 
ing within the zodiac of his own wit. Nature never set 
forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have 
done ; neither with pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet- 
smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too- 95 
much-loved earth more lovely ; her world is brazen, the 
poets only deliver a golden. 

But let those things alone, and go to man — for whom 
as the other things are, so it seemeth in him her utter- 
most cunning is employed — and know whether she have 100 
brought forth so true a lover as Theagenes ; so constant 
a friend as Pylades ; so valiant a man as Orlando ; so 
right a prince as Xenophon's Cyrus ; so excellent a 
man every way as Virgil's y^neas? Neither let this be 
jestingly conceived, because the works of the one be 105 
essential, the other in imitation or fiction ; for any under- 
standing knovveth the skill of each artificer standeth in 
that idea, or fore-conceit of the work, and not in the 
work itself. And that the poet hath that idea is mani- 
fest, by delivering them forth in such excellency as he no 
hath imagined them. Which delivering forth, also, is 
not wholly imaginative, as we are wont to say by them 
that build castles- in the air ; but so far substantially it 



64 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

vvorketh, not only to make a Cyrus, which had been but 
a particular excellency, as nature might have done, but 115 
to bestow a Cyrus upon the world to make many Cyruses, 
if they will learn aright why and how that maker made 
him. Neither let it be deemed too saucy a comparison 
to balance the highest point of man's wit with the efficacy 
of nature ; but rather give right honor to the Heavenly 120 
Maker of that maker, who, having made man to His own 
likeness, set him beyond and over all the works of that 
second nature. Which in nothing he showeth so much as 
in poetry, when with the force of a divine breath he 
bringeth things forth far surpassing her doings, with no 125 
small argument to the incredulous of that first accursed 
fall of Adam, — since our erected wit maketh us know 
what perfection is, and yet our infected will keepeth us 
from reaching unto it. But these arguments will by few 
be understood, and by fewer granted ; thus much I hope 130 
will be given me, that the Greeks with some probability 
of reason gave him the name above all names of learn- 
ing. 

Since, then, poetry is of all human learnings the most 
ancient and of most fatherly antiquity, as from whence 135 
other learnings have taken their beginnings ; since it is so 
universal that no learned nation doth despise it, nor bar- 
barous nation is without it ; since both Roman and Greek 
gave divine names unto it, the one of "prophesying," the 
other " making," and that indeed that name of '^ making" 140 
is fit for him, considering that whereas other arts retain 
themselves within their subject, and receive, as it were, 
their being from it, the poet only bringeth his own stuff, 
and doth not learn a conceit out of a matter, but maketh 
matter for a conceit ; since neither his description nor 145 
his end containeth any evil, the thing described cannot be 



SIDNEY 65 

evil ; since his effects be so good as to teach goodness, 
and dehght the learners of it ; since therein — namely in 
moral doctrine, the chief of all knowledges — he doth not 
only far pass the historian^ but for instructing is well nigh 150 
comparable to the philosopher, and for moving leaveth 
him behind him ; since the Holy Scripture, wherein there 
is no uncleanness, hath whole parts in it poetical, and 
that even our Saviour Christ vouchsafed to use the flowers 
of it ; since all his kinds are not only in their united forms, 155 
but in their several dissections fully commendable ; I 
think, and think I think rightly, the laurel crown ap- 
pointed for triumphant captains doth worthily, of all other 
learnings, honor the poet's triumph. 



ASTROPHEL AND STELLA 

This night, while sleep begins with heavy wings 

To hatch mine eyes, and that unbitted thought 

Doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought 

To leave the sceptre of all subject things ; 

The first that straight my fancy's error brings 

Unto ray mind is Stella's image, wrought 

By Love's own self, but with so curious drought 

That she, methinks, not only shines but sings. 

I start, look, hark ; but what in closed-up sense 

Was held, in opened sense it flies away. 

Leaving me nought but wailing eloquence. 

I, seeing better sights in sight's decay, 

Call'd it anew, and wooed Sleep again ; 

But him, her host, that unkind guest had slain. 



66 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Come, Sleep ! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; 
With shield of proof shield me from out the press 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw : 

make in me those civil wars to cease ; 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to Hght, 
A rosy garland and a weary head : 
And if these things, as being thine in right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 

When I was forced from Stella ever dear — 
Stella, food of my thoughts, heart of my heart — 
Stella, whose eyes make all my tempests clear — 
By Stella's laws of duty to depart ; 
Alas, I found that she with me did smart ; 
I saw that tears did in her eyes appear ; 
I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part, 
And her sad words my sadded sense did hear. 
For me, I wept to see pearls scattered so ; 
I sighed her sighs, and wailed for her woe ; 
Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen. 
Thus, while th' effect most bitter was to me, 
And nothing then the cause more sweet could be, 
I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been. 

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame. 

Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee ; 



SIDNEY 



67 



Thine eyes my pride, thy Hps mine history : 

If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. 

Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame 

A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : 

In truth, I swear I wish not there should be 

Graved in my epitaph a Poet's name. 

Nor, if I would, could I just title make, 

That any laud thereof to me should grow, 

Without my plumes from others' wings I take : 

For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, 

Since all my words thy beauty doth endite. 

And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. 

Stella, since thou so right a princess art 
Of all the powers which life bestows on me, 
That ere by them ought undertaken be, 
They first resort unto that sovereign part ; 
Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart. 
Which pants as though it still should leap to thee : 
And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy 
To this great cause, which needs both use and art. 
And as a queen, who from her presence sends 
Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit. 
Till it have wrought what thy own will attends. 
On servants' shame oft masters' blame doth sit: 
O let not fools in me thy works reprove. 
And scorning say, ' See what it is to love ! ' 



10 



BALLADS 

(?) 

SIR PATRICK SPENS 

[This ballad is a confused echo of the Scotch expedition which 
should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland, about 1285.] 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 

Drinking the blude-red wine ; 
' O whare will I get a skeely skipper, 

To sail this new ship of mine ! ' 

O np and spake an eldern knight, 5 

Sat at the king's right knee, — 
' Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, 

That ever sailed the sea.' 

Our king has written a braid letter, 

And seal'd it with his hand, 10 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
Was walking on the strand. 

' To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o'er the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway 15 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame.' 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud loud laughed he ; 
The neist word that Sir Patrick read^ 

The tear blinded his e'e. 20 

68 



BALLADS 69 

* O wha is this has done this deed, 

x\nd tauld the king o' me, 
To send us out, at this time of the year, 
To sail upon the sea ? 

* Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 25 

Our ship must sail the faem ; 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 
'Tis we must fetch her hame.' 

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, 

Wi' a' the speed they may ; 30 

They hae landed in Noroway, 
Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week. 

In Noroway, but twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 35 

Began aloud to say, — 

'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud. 

And a' our queenis fee.' 
' Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie. 40 

' For I brought as much Avhite monie. 

As gane my men and me. 
And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud, 

Out o'er the sea wi' me. 

* Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a' ! 45 

Our gude ship sails the morn.' 

* Now, ever alake, my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm ! 



70 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

' I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 50 

And, if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm.' 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league but barely three, 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 55 

And gurly grew the sea. 

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waves cam o'er the broken ship. 

Till a' her sides were torn. 60 

'■ O where will I get a gude sailor. 

To take my helm in hand, 
Till I get up to the tall top-mast. 

To see if I can spy land ? ' 

' O here am I, a sailor gude, 65 

To take the helm in hand. 
Till you go up to the tall top -mast ; 

But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.' 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step but barely ane, 7° 

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, 

And the salt sea it came in. 

* Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Another o' the twine. 
And wap them into our ship's side, 75 

And let na the sea come in.' 



BALLADS yi 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 

Another of the twine, 
And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, 

But still the sea came in.' 80 

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords 

To weet their cork-heel'd shoon ! 
But lang or a' the play was play'd, 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed, 85 

That flattered on the faem ; 
And mony was the gude lord's son, 

That never mair cam home. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, 

The maidens tore their hair, 90 

A' for the sake of their true loves ; 

For them they'll see na mair. 

O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, 

Wi' their fans into their hand. 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 95 

Come sailing to the strand ! 

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, 

Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, 
A' waiting for their own dear loves ! 

For them they'll see na mair. 100 

O forty miles off Aberdeen, 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep. 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens^ 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 



72 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 



THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY 

[This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries. 
The Scotch have localised it, and point out Blackhouse, on the wild 
Douglas Burn, a tributary of the Yarrow, as the scene of the tragedy.] 

' Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas,' she says, 

' And put on your armour so bright ; 
Let it never be said that a daughter of thine 

Was married to a lord under night. 

* Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, 5 

And put on your armour so bright, 
And take better care of your youngest sister, 
For your eld est 's awa the last night.' 

He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, 

And himself on a dapple grey, 10 

With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, 
And lightly they rode away. 

Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, 

To see what he could see. 
And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, 15 

Come riding over the lee. 

* Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret,' he said, 

'- And hold my steed in your hand. 
Until that against your seven brothers bold. 

And your father, I mak a stand.' 20 

She held his steed in her milk-white hand, 

And never shed one tear. 
Until that she saw her seven brethren fa'. 

And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. 



BALLADS - 73 

' O hold your hand, Lord William ! ' she said, 25 

' For your strokes they are wond'rous sair ; 

True lovers I can get many a ane, 
But a father I can never get mair.' 

O she 's ta'en out her handkerchief, 

It was o' the holland sae fine, 30 

And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, 

That were redder than the wine. 

' O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret,' he said, 

' O whether will ye gang or bide ? ' 
' I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William,' she said, 35 

' For ye have left me no other guide.' 

He's lifted her on a milk-white steed. 

And himself on a dapple grey. 
With a bugelet horn hung down by his side. 

They slowly baith rade away. 4° 

O they rade on, and on they rade. 

And a' by the light of the moon. 
Until they came to yon wan water, 

And there they lighted down. 

They Hghted down to tak a drink 45 

Of the spring that ran sae clear ; 
And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood 

And sair she gan to fear. 

' Hold up, hold up. Lord William,' she says, 

' For I fear that you are slain ! ' 5° 

' 'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak. 
That shines in the water sae plain.' 



74 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

O they rade on, and on they rade, 

And a' by the hght of the moon, 
Until they cam' to bis mother's ha' door, 55 

And there they Hghted down. 

^ Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says, 

* Get up, and let me in ! — 

Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says, 

* For this night my fair ladye I've win. 60 

' O mak my bed, lady mother,' he says, 

' O mak it braid and deep ! 
And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, 

And the sounder I will sleep.' 

Lord Wilham was dead lang ere midnight, 65 

Lady Marg'ret lang ere day — 
And all true lovers that go thegither. 

May they have mair luck than they ! 

Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, 

Lady Margaret in Mary's quire : 70 

Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, 
And out o' the knight's a brier. 



^to^ 



And they twa met, and they twa plat, 

And fain they wad be near ; 
And a' the warld might ken right weel, 75 

They were twa lovers dear. 

But bye and rade the Black Douglas, 

And wow but he was rough ! 
For he pull'd up the bonny brier. 

And flang'd in St. Mary's loch. 80 



BALLADS 75 



WALY, WALY 



[This fragment is often printed as part of a ballad, concerned with 
events in the history of Lord James Douglas, of the laird of Black- 
wood, and of the lady who utters the beautiful lament here printed.] 

WALY, waly, up the bank, 

waly, waly, doun the brae. 
And waly, waly, yon burn-side, 

Where I and my love were wont to gae ! 

1 lean'd my back unto an aik, 5 

1 thocht it was a trustie tree, 

But first it bow'd and syne it brak', — 
Sae my true love did lichthe me. 

O waly, waly, but love me bonnie 

A Httle time while it is new ! 10 

But when it 's auld it waxeth cauld. 

And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. 
O wherefore should I busk my heid. 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
For my true love has me forsook, 15 

And says he'll never lo'e me mair. 

Noo Arthur's Seat sail be my bed, 

The sheets sail ne'er be press'd by me ; 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink ; 

Since my true love's forsaken me. 20 

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 

And shake the green leaves off the tree ? 
O gentle death, when wilt thou come? 

For of my life I am wearie. 



76 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 25 

Nor blawmg snaw's inclemencie, 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry ; 

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 
When we cam' in by Glasgow toun, 

We were a comely sicet to see ; 30 

My love was clad in the black velvet, 

An' I myself in cramasie. 

But had I wist before I kiss'd 

That love had been so ill to win, 
I'd lock'd my heart in a case o' goud, 35 

And pinned it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh ! if my young babe were born. 

And set upon the nurse's knee ; 
And I mysel' were dead and gane, 

And the green grass growing over me ! 40 



KINMONT WILLIE 

[The events here reported occurred in 1596, The ballad is the best 
example of those which treat of rescues, and lawless exploits in the de- 
batable land.] 

O HAVE ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? 

O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroop? 
How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, 

On Hairibee to hang him up? 

Had Willie had but twenty men, 5 

But twenty men as stout as he, 
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, 

Wi' eight score in his cumpanie. 



BALLADS yy 

They band his legs beneath the steed, 

They tied his hands behind his back ; lo 

They guarded him, fivesome on each side. 

And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. 

They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, 

And also thro' the Carlisle sands 
They brought him to Carlisle castell, 15 

To be at my Lord Scroop's commands. 

' My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, 

And whae will dare this deed avow? 
Or answer by the border law? 

Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch ! ' 20 

' Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver ! 

There 's never a Scot shall set ye free : 
Before ye cross my castle yate, 

I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.* 

' Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' WilHe : 25 

' By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroop,' he said, 

' I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, 
But I paid my lawing before I gaed.' 

Now the word is gane to the bauld Keeper, 

In Branksome Ha', where that he lay, 30 

That Lord Scroop has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, 
Between the hours of night and day. 

He has ta'en the table wi' his hand. 
He garr'd the red wine spring on hie — 

' Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 35 

' But avenged of Lord Scroop I'll be I 



y8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

^ O is my basnet a widow's curch ? 

Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? 
Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, 

That an English lord should lightly me ! 40 

^And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, 

Against the truce of border tide ? 
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch 

Is Keeper here on the Scottish side? 

'And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont WilHe, 45 

Withouten either dread or fear? 
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch 

Can back a steed, or shake a spear? 

' O were there war between the lands, 

As well I wot that there is none, 50 

I would slight Carlisle castell high, 

Tho' it were builded of marble stone. 

' I would set that castell in a low, 

And sloken it with English blood ! 
There's nevir a man in Cumberland, 55 

Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. 

' But since nae war's between the lands, 
And there is peace, and peace should be ; 

I'll neither harm English lad nor lass, 

And yet the Kinmont freed shall be ! ' 60 

He has call'd him forty march men bauld, 

I trow they were of his ain name. 
Except Sir Gilbert Elliot call'd, 
I The laird of Stobs, I mean the same. 



BALLADS 



79 



He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, 65 

Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch ; 

With spur on heel, and splent on spaueld, 
And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. 

There were five and five before them a', 

Wi' hunting horns and bugles bright ; yo 

And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, 
Like warden's men, arrayed for fight : 

And five and five, like a mason gang, 

That carrid the ladders lang and hie ; 
And five and five, like broken men ; 75 

And so they reached the Woodhouselee. 

And as we cross'd the Bat cable Land, 

When to the Enghsh side we held. 
The first o' men that we met wi', 

Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde ? go 

' Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen ? ' 
Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell to me ! ' 

' We go to hunt an English stag. 

Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.' 

' Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men ? ' 85 

Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell me true ! ' 

' We go to catch a rank reiver. 

Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch.' 



' Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, 
Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie ? ' 

*We gang to herry a corbie's nest. 

That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.' 



90 



80 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

' Where be ye gaun, ye broken men ? ' 
Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell to me ! ' 

Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, 95 

And the never a word o' lear had he. 

' Why trespass ye on the Enghsh side ? 

Row-footed outlaws, stand ! ' quo' he ; 
The never a word had Dickie to say, 

Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. 100 

Then on we held for Carhsle toun, 

And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd ; 

The water was great and meikle of spait. 
But the nevir a horse nor man we lost. 

And when we reached the Staneshaw-bank, 105 

The wind was rising loud and hie ; 
And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, 

For fear that they should stamp and nie. 

And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, 

The wind began full loud to blaw, no 

But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet. 

When we came beneath the castle wa'. 

We crept on knees, and held our breath. 
Till we placed the ladders against the wa' ; 

And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell 115 

To mount the first, before us a'. 

He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, 

He flung him down upon the lead — 
' Had there not been peace between our land, 

' Upon the other side thou hadst gaed ! — 120 



BALLADS 8 1 

' Now sound out, trumpets ! ' quo' Buccleuch ; 

' Let's waken Lord Scroop, right merrilie ! ' 
Then loud the warden's trumpet blew — 

' O wha dare meddle wi' me .? ' - 

Then speedilie to work we gaed, 125 

And raised the slogan ane and a'. 
And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead, 

And so we wan to the castle ha'. 

They thought King James and a' his men 

Had won the house wi' bow and spear ; 130 

It was but twenty Scots and ten. 
That put a thousand in sic a stear ! 

Wi' coulters, and wi' fore-hammers. 

We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, y 

Until we came to the inner prison, 135 

Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. 

And when we cam to the lower prison. 
Where WiUie o' Kinmont he did He — 

* O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, 

Upon the morn that thou's to die ? ' 140 

* O I sleep saft, and I wake aft ; 

It's lang since sleeping was fleyed frae me ! 
Gie my service back to my wife and bairns. 
And a' gude fellows thet spier for me.' 

Then Red Rowan has hente him up, 145 

The starkest man in Teviotdale — 

* Abide, abide now. Red Rowan, 

Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell. 



82 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

* Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroop ! 

My gude Lord Scroop, farewell ! ' he cried — 150 

* I'll pay you for my lodging maill. 

When first we meet on the border side.' 

Then shoulder high, wi' shout and cry, 
We bore him down the ladder lang ; 

At every stride Red Rowan made, 155 

I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang ! 

* O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont WiUie, 

' I have ridden horse baith wild and wood ; 
But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, 

I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. 160 

^ O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 
' I've pricked a horse out oure the furs ; 

But since the day I backed a steed, 
I never wore sic cumbrous spurs ! ' 

We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, 165 

When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, 

And a thousand men, in horse and foot. 
Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. 

Buccleuch he turned to Eden water. 

Even where it flowed frae bank to brim, 170 

And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, 

And safely swam them thro' the stream. 

He turned him on the other side, 

And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he — 

' If ye like na my visit in merry England, 175 

In fair Scotland come visit me ! ' 



BALLADS 83 

All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, 

He stood as still as rock of stane ; 
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, 

When thro' the water they had gane. iSo 

* He is either himself a devil frae hell, 
Or else his mother a witch maun be ^ 

I wad na ha ridden that wan water, 
For a' the gowd in Christentie.' 



ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW^S THREE 

SONS 

There are twelve months in all the year, 

As I hear many say, 
But the merriest month in all the year 

Is the merry month of May. 

Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 5 

With a link a down, and a day, 
And there he met a silly old woman. 

Was weeping on the way. 

'What news? what news? thou silly old woman. 

What news hast thou for me?' 10 

Said she, 'There's my three sons in Nottingham town. 
To-day condemned to die.' 

'O, have they parishes burnt?' he said, 

' Or have they ministers slain? 
Or have they robbed any virgin ? 15 

Or other men's wives have ta'en? ' 



84 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

* They have no parishes burnt, good sir, 

Nor yet have ministers slain, 
Nor have they robbed any virgin, 

Nor other men's wives have ta'en.' 20 

' O, what have they done ? ' said Robin Hood, 
* I pray thee tell to me.' 

* It's for slaying of the king's fallow deer, 

Bearing their long bows with thee.' 

* Dost thou not mind, old woman,' he said, 25 

' How thou madest me sup and dine ? 
By the truth of my body,' quoth bold Robin Hood, 
' You could not tell it in better time.' 

Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, 

With a link a down, and a day, 30 

And there he met with a silly old palmer. 
Was walking on the highway. 

* What news ? what news ? thou silly old man. 

What news, I do thee pray ? ' 
Said he, ' Three squires in Nottingham town 35 

Are condemn'd to die this day.' 

' Come change thy apparel with me, old man. 

Come change thy apparel for mine ; 
Here is ten shillings in good silver. 

Go drink it in beer or wine.' 40 

* O, thine apparel is good,' he said, 

' And mine is ragged and torn ; 
Wherever you go, wherever you ride, 
Laugh not an old man to scorn.' 



BALLADS 85 

'Come change thy apparel with me, old churl, 45 

Come change thy apparel with mine ; 
Here is a piece of good broad gold, 

Go feast thy brethren with wine.' 

Then he put on the old man's hat ; 

It stood full high on the crown : 50 

' The first bold bargain that I come at, 

It shall make thee come down.' 

Then he put on the old man's cloak. 

Was patch'd black, blue, and red ; 
He thought it no shame, all the day long, 55 

To wear the bags of bread. 

Then he put on the old man's breeks, 
Was patch'd from leg to side : 

* By the truth of my body,' bold Robin can say, 

*This man loved little pride.' 60 

Then he put on the old man's hose, 
Were patch'd from knee to wrist : 

* By the truth of my body,' said bold Robin Hood, 

* I'd laugh if I had any list.' 

Then he put on the old man's shoes, 65 

Were patch'd both beneath and aboon ; 

Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath, 
' It's good habit that makes a man.' 

Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone. 

With a H?ik a down and a down, 70 

And there he met with the proud sheriff, 
Was walking along the town. 



86 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

' Save you, save you, sheriff ! ' he said ; 

' Now heaven you save and see ! 
And what will you give to a silly old man 75 

To-day will your hangman be ? ' 

'Some suits, some suits,' the sheriff he said. 

' Some suits I'll give to thee ; 
Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen. 

To-day's a hangman's fee.' 80 

Then Robin he turns him round about. 

And jumps from stock to stone : 
* By the truth of my body,' the sheriff he said, 

' That's well jumpt, thou nimble old man.' 

' I was ne'er a hangman in all my hfe, 85 

Nor yet intends to trade ; 
But curst be he,' said bold Robin, 

' That first a hangman was made ! 

'I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, 

And a bag for barley and corn ; 90 

A bag for bread, and a bag for beef. 
And a bag for my little small horn. 

' I have a horn in my pocket, 

I got it from Robin Hood, 
And still when I set it to my mouth, 95 

For thee it blows little good.' 

' O, wind thy horn, thou proud fellow ! 

Of thee I have no doubt. ^ 

I wish that thou give such a blast, 

Till both thy eyes fall out.' 100 



BALLADS 87 

The first loud blast that he did blow, 

He blew both loud and shrill; 
A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men 

Came riding over the hill. 

The next loud blast that he did give, 105 

He blew both loud and amain. 
And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's men 

Came shining over the plain. 

'O, who are these,' the sheriff he said, 

' Come trij^ping over the lee? ' no 

* They're my attendants,' brave Robin did say; 
^ They'll pay a visit to thee.' 

They took the gallows from the slack, 

They set it in the glen, 
They hanged the proud sheriff on that, 115 

Released their own three men. 



GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR, O 

It fell about the Martinmas time. 
And a gay time it was than, O, 
That our gudewife had puddins to mak' 
And she boil'd them in the pan, O. 

And the barrin' o' our door, weil, weil, well. 

And the barrin' o' our door weil. 

The wind blew cauld frae north to south, 

And blew intil the floor, O ; 
Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, 

* Get up and bar the door, O.' 



88 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

*■ My hand is in my hussyfskip, 

Gudeman, as you may see, O ; 
An it shou'dna be barr'd this hunner year, 
It's no be barr'd by me, O.' 

They made a paction 'tween them twa, 15 

They made it firm and sure, O, 
The first that spak the foremost word 

Should rise and bar the door, O. 

Then by there came twa gentlemen. 

At twelve o'clock at nicht, O, 20 

And they could neither see house nor ha', 
Nor coal nor candle licht, O. 

' Now whether is this a rich man's house, 

Or whether is it a puir, O? ' 
But ne'er a word wad ane o' them speak, 25 

For barring of the door, O. 

And first they ate the white puddins. 

And syne they ate the black, O ; 
And muckle thought the gudewife to hersel'. 

Yet ne'er a word she spak, O. 30 

Then ane unto the ither said, 

' Hae, man, tak ye my knife, O ; 
Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard. 

And I'll kiss the gudewife, O.' 

* But there's nae water in the house, 35 

And what shall we do then, O ? ' 
' What ails ye at the puddins bree 

That boils into the pan, O ? ' 



BALLADS 89 

O up then startit our gudeman, 

An angry man was he, O ; 40 

* Wad ye kiss my wife before my een, 

And scaud me wi' puddin bree, O ? ' 

O up then startit our gudewife, 
Gied three skips on the floor, O ; 

* Gudeman, ye've spak the foremost word ; 45 

Get up and bar the door, O.' 



BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY 

O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 

They war twa bonnie lasses ! 
They bigget a bower on yon burn-brae, 

And theekit o'er wi' rashes. 

They theekit o'er wi' rashes green, 5 

They theekit o'er wi' heather ; 
But the pest cam frae the burrows-toun. 

And slew them baith thegither. 

They thought to lie in Methven kirk-yard 

Amang their noble kin ; 10 

But they maun lye in stronach haugh. 
To biek forenent the sin : 

And Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 

They war twa bonnie lasses ; 
They bigget a bower on yon burn-brae, 15 

And theekit o'er wi' rashes. 



EDMUND SPENSER 

(1552— 1599) 

THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER 

JANUARIE 
^GLOGA PRIMA — ARGUMENT 

[In this fyrst yEglogue Colin Cloute, a shepheardes boy, complaineth 
him of his unfortunate love, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured 
of a country lasse called Rosalinde : with which strong affection being 
very sore traveled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season 
of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne 
winter-beaten flocke. And, lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all 
former pleasaunce and delights, he breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and 
casteth him selfe to the ground.] 

Colin. Cloute 

A SHEPEHEARDS boyc, (iio better doe him call,) 
When Wmters wastful spight was almost spent. 
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall, 
Led forth his flock, that had bene long ypent : 

So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde, 5 

That now unnethes their feete could them uphold. 

All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke. 
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while !) 
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke ; 
Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his stile : 10 

Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde, 
And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde, 

90 



SPENSER 91 

' Ye Gods of love, that pitie lovers payne, 

(If any gods the pame of lovers pitie) 

Looke from above, where you in joyes remaine, 15 

And bowe your eares unto my dolefull dittie : 

And, Pan, thou shepheards God that once didst love, 
Pitie the paines that thou thy selfe didst prove. 

* Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted, 
Art made a myrrhour to behold my plight : 20 
Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted 

Thy sommer prowde, with Daffadillies dight; 
And now is come thy wynters stormy state, 
Thy mantel mard, wherein thou maskedst late. 

* Such rage as winters reigneth in my heart, 25 
My life-bloud friesing with unkindly cold ; 

Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smart, 

As if my yeare were wast and woxen old ; 
And yet, alas ! but now my spring begonne. 
And yet, alas ! yt is already donne. 30 

* You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost, 
Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre. 
And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost, 
Instede of blossmes, wherewith your buds did flowre ; 

I see your teares that from your boughes doe raine, 35 
Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine. 

* All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere. 
My timely buds with wayhng all are wasted ; 

The blossome which my braunch of youth did beare 
With breathed sighes is blowne away and blasted ; 4° 

And from mine eyes the drizhng teares descend, 

As on your boughes the ysicles depend. 



92 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

' Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent, 
Whose knees are weake through fast and evill fare, 
Mayst witnesse well, by thy ill government, 45 

Thy maysters mind is overcome with care : 

Thou weake, I wanne ; thou leane, I quite forlorne : 
With mourning pyne 1 ; you with pyning mourne. 

' A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower 
Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see, 50 

And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure 
Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight as shee : 

Yet all for naught : such sight hath bred my bane. 

Ah, God ! that love should breede both joy and payne ! 

' It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plaine, 55 

Albee my love he seeke with dayly suit; 
His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine. 
His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit. 

Ah, foolish Hobbinol ! thy gyfts bene vayne ; 

Colin them gives to Rosalind againe. 60 

' I love thilke lasse, (alas ! why doe I love?) 

And am forlorne, (alas ! why am I lorne?) 

Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprove. 

And of my rurall musicke holdeth scorne. 

Shepheards devise she hateth as the snake, 65 

And laughes the songs that Colin Clout doth make. 

' Wherefore, my pype, albee rude Pan thou please, 
Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would : 
And thou, unlucky Muse, that wontst to ease 
My musing mynd, yet canst not when thou should ; jo 

Both pype and Muse shall sore the while abye.' 
So broke his oaten pipe, and downe dyd lye. 



SPENSER 93 

By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe 

His weary waine ; and nowe the frosty Night 

Her mantle black through heaven gan overhaile : 75 

Which seene, the pensife boy, halfe in despight, 
Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe. 
Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe. 



ASTROPHEL 

A PASTORAL ELEGIE 

UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST NOBLE AND VALOROUS KNIGHT, 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

DEDICATED TO THE MOST BEAUTIFUL AND VERTUOUS LADIE, 

THE COUNTESS OF ESSEX 

Shepheards, that wont, on pipes of oaten reed, 
Oft times to plaine your loves concealed smart ; 
And with your piteous layes have learnd to breed 
Compassion in a countrey lasses hart 
Hearken, ye gentle shepheards, to ray song, 
And place my dolefull plaint your plaints emong. 

To you alone I sing this mournfull verse, 
The mournfulst verse that ever man heard tell : 
To you whose softened hearts it may impierse 
With dolors dart for death of Astrophel. 
To you I sing and to none other wight, 
For well I wot my rymes bene rudely dight. 

Yet as they been, if any nycer wit 

Shall hap to heare, or covet them to read : 



94 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Thinke he, that such are for such ones most fit, 15 

Made not to please the Uving but the dead. 
And if m him found pity ever place, 
Let him be moov'd to pity such a case. 

ASTROPHEL 

A GENTLE shepheard borne in Arcady, 

Of gentlest race that ever shepheard bore, 

About the grassy bancks of Haemony » 

Did keepe his sheep, his litle stock and store : 

Full carefully he kept them day and night, 5 

In fairest fields ; and Astrophel he hight. 

Young Astrophel, the pride of shepheards praise. 

Young Astrophel, the rusticke lasses love : 

Far passing all the pastors of his dales, 

In all that seemly shepheard might behove. 10 

In one thing onely fayling of the best. 

That he was not so happie as the rest. 

For from the time that first the Nymph his mother 
Him forth did bring, and taught her lambs to feed ; 
A sclender swaine excelling far each other, 15 

In comely shape, like her that did him breed. 
He grew up fast in goodnesse and in grace, 
And doubly faire wox both in mynd and face. 

Which daily more and more he did augment. 

With gentle usuage and demeanure myld : 20 

That all mens hearts with secret ravishment 

He stole away, and weetingly beguyld. 

Ne spight it selfe, that all good things doth spill. 

Found ought in him, that she could say was ill. 



95 

25 



35 



SPENSER 

His sports were faire, his joyance innocent, 
Sweet without sowre, and honey without o-all ; 
And he himselfe seemed made for merriment 
Merily masking both in bowre and hall. 
There was no pleasurs nor delightfull play. 
When Astrophel so ever was away. 

For he could pipe, and daunce, and caroll sweet, 
Emongst the shepheards in their shearing feast ; 
As Somers larke that with her song doth greet 
The dawning day forth comming from the East. 
And layes of love he also could compose : 
Those happie she, whom he to praise did chose. 

Full many Maydens often did him woo, 
Them to vouchsafe emongst his rimes to name, 
Or make for them as he was wont to doo 
For her that did his heart with love inflame. 
For which they promised to dight for him 
Gay chaplets of flowers and gyrlonds trim. 

And many a Nymph both of the wood and brooke, 
Soone as his oaten pipe began to shrill, 
Both christaU wells and shadie groves forsooke. 
To heare the charmes of his enchanting skill ; 
And brought him presents, flowers if it were prime, 
Or mellow fruit if it were harvest time. 

But he for none of them did care a whit, 

Yet woodgods for them often sighed sore : 50 

Ne for their gifts unworthie of his wit, 

Yet not unworthie of the countries store. 

For one alone he cared, for one he sigh't. 

His lifes desire and his deare loves dehght. 



40 



45 



96 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Stella the faire, the fairest star in skie, 55 

As faire as Venus or the fairest faire, 

(A fairer star saw never living eie,) 

Shot her sharp pointed beames through purest aire. 

Her he did love, her he alone did honor. 

His thoughts, his rimes, his songs were all upon her. 60 

To her he vowed the service of his dales. 

On her he spent the riches of his wit : 

For her he made hymnes- of immortall praise. 

Of onely her he sung, he thought, he writ. 

Her, and but her, of love he worthy deemed ; 65 

For all the rest but litle he esteemed. 

Ne her with ydle words alone he wowed. 

And verses vaine, (yet verses are not vaine,) 

But with brave deeds to her sole service vowed. 

And bold atchievements her did entertaine. 70 

For both in deeds and words he nourtred was. 

Both wise and hardie, (too hardie, alas !) 

In wrestling nimble, and in renning swift, 

In shooting steddie, and in swimming strong : 

Well made to strike, to throw, to leape, to lift, 75 

And all the sports that shepheards are emong. 

In every one he vanquisht every one, 

He vanquisht all, and vanquisht was of none. 

Besides, in hunting such felicitie, 

Or rather infelicitie, he found, 80 

That every field and forest far away 

He sought where salvage beasts do most abound. 

No beast so salvage but he could it kill ; 

No chace so hard^ but he therein had skill. 



SFEA'SER 97 

Such skill, matcht with such courage as he had, 85 

Did prick him foorth with proud desire of praise 

To seek abroad, of daunger nought ydrad, 

His mistresse name, and his owne fame to raise. 

What needeth peril to be sought abroad, 

Since round about us it doth make aboad ! 90 

It fortuned as he that perilous game 

In forreine soyle pursued far away. 

Into a forest wide and waste he came, 

Where store he heard to be of salvage pray. 

So wide a forest and so waste as this, 95 

Nor famous Ardeyn, nor fowle Arlo, is. 

There his wellwoven toyles, and subtil traines, 

He laid the brutish nation to enwrap : 

So well he wrought with practise and with paines. 

That he of them great troops did soon entrap. 100 

Full happie man (misweening much) was hee, 

So rich a spoile within his power to see. 

Eftsoones, all heedlesse of his dearest hale. 

Full greedily into the heard he thrust, 

To slaughter them and worke their finall bale ; 105 

Least that his toyle should of their troups be brust. 

Wide wounds emongst them many one he made. 

Now with his sharp bore-spear, now with his blade. 

His care was all how he them all might kill. 

That none might scape, (so partiall unto none :) no 

111 mynd so much to mynd anothers ill, 

As to become unmyndfuU of his owne. 

But pardon that unto the cruel skies. 

That from himselfe to them withdrew his eies. 

H 



98 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

So as he rag'd emongst that beastly rout, 115 

A cruell beast of most accursed brood 

Upon him turned, (despeyre makes cowards stout,) 

And, with fell tooth accustomed to blood. 

Launched his thigh with so mischievous might, 

That it both bone and muscles ryved quight. 120 

So deadly was the dint and deep the wound. 

And so huge streames of blood thereout did flow. 

That he endured not the direfull stound. 

But on the cold deare earth himselfe did throw ; 

The whiles the captive heard his nets did rend, 125 

And, having none to let, to wood did wend. 

Ah ! where were ye this while his shepheard peares, 

To whom alive was nought so deare as hee : 

And ye fayre Mayds, the matches of his yeares, 

Which in his grace did boast you most to bee ! 130 

Ah ! where were ye, when he of you had need. 

To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed ! 

Ah ! wretched boy, the shape of dreryhead, 

And sad ensaraple of mans suddein end : 

Full litle faileth but thou shalt be dead, 135 

Unpitied, unplaynd, of foe or frend : - 

Whilest none is nigh, thine eylids up to close. 

And kisse thy lips like faded leaves of rose. 

A sort of shepherds, sewing of the chace. 

As they the forest raunged on a day. 140 

By fate or fortune came unto the place. 

Where as the lucklesse boy yet bleeding lay ; 

Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled. 

Had not good hap those shepheards thether led. 



SPENSEJ^ 99 

They stopt his wound, (too late to stop it was !) 145 

And in their armes then softly did him reare : 

Tho (as he wild) unto his loved lasse, 

His dearest love, him dolefully did beare. 

The dolefulst beare that ever man did see, 

Was Astrophel, but dearest unto mee ! 150 

She, when she saw her love in such a plight. 

With crudled blood and filthie gore deformed. 

That wont to be with flowers and gyrlonds dight, 

And her deare favours dearly well adorned ; 

Her face, the fairest face that eye mote see, 155 

She likewise did deforme, like him to bee. 

Her yellow locks that shone so bright and long. 

As Sunny beames in fairest somers day, 

She fiersly tore, and with outragious wrong 

From her red cheeks the roses rent away ; 160 

And her faire brest, the threasury of joy, 

She spoyld thereof, and filled with annoy. 

His palled face, impictured with death, 

She bathed oft with teares, and dried oft : 

And with sweet kisses suckt the wasting breath 165 

Out of his lips like Hlies pale and soft : 

And oft she cald to him, who answerd nought, 

But onely by his lookes did tell his thought. 

The rest of her impatient regret. 

And piteous mone the which she for him made, 170 

No toong can tell, nor any forth can set. 

But he whose heart like sorrow did invade. 

At last, when paine his vitall powres had spent, 

His wasted Hfe her wearie lodge forwent. 



lOO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Which when she saw, she staied not a whit, 175 

But after him did make untimely haste : 

Forth-with her ghost out of her corps did flit, 

And followed her make like turtle chaste. 

To prove that death their hearts cannot divide 

Which living were in love so firmly tide. iSo 

The gods, which all things see, this same beheld. 

And, pittying this paire of lovers trew, 

Transformed them, there lying on the field. 

Into one flowre that is both red and blew; 

It first growes red, and then to blew doth fade, 185 

Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made. 

And in the midst thereof a star appeares, 

As fairly formd as any star in skyes ; 

Resembling Stella in her freshest yeares. 

Forth darting beames of beautie from her eyes : 190 

And all the day it standeth full of deow, 

Which is the teares, that from her eyes did flow. 

That hearbe of some Starlight is cald by name. 

Of others Penthia, though not so well : 

But thou, where ever thou dost finde the same, 195 

From this day forth do call it Astrophel : 

And, when so ever thou it up doest take, 

Do pluck it softly for that shepheards sake. 

Hereof when tydings far abroad did passe, 

The shepheards all which loved him full deare, 200 

And sure full deare of all he loved was. 

Did thether flock to see what they did heare 

And when that pitteous spectacle they vewed. 

The same with bitter teares they all bedewed. 



SPENSER lOI 

And every one did make exceeding mone, 205 

With inward anguish and great griefe opprest : 
And every one did weep and waile, and mone, 
And meanes deviz'd to show his sorrow best. 
That from that houre, since first on grassie greene 
Shepheards kept sheep, was not like mourning seen. 210 

But first his sister that Clorinda hight, 

The gentlest shepheardesse that lives this day, 

And most resembling both in shape and spright 

Her brother deare, began this dolefull lay. 

Which, least I marre the sweetnesse of the vearse, 215 

In sort as she it sung I will rehearse. 



AMORETTI 



Happy, ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands, 
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might. 
Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands, 
Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight. 
And happy Hnes ! on which, with starry light, 
Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look 
And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright. 
Written with teares in harts close-bleeding book. 
And happy rymes ! bath'd in the sacred brooke 
Of Helicon, whence she derived is ; i 

When ye behold that Angels blessed looke. 
My soules long-lacked foode, my heavens blis ; 

Leaves, hnes, and rymes, seeke her to please alone, 
Whom if ye please, I care for other none ! 



102 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

VII 

Fayre eyes ! the myrrour of my mazed hart, 
What wondrous vertue is contaynd in you, 
The which both lyfe and death forth from you dart. 
Into the object of your mighty view? 
For, when ye mildly looke with lovely hew, 
Then is my soule with life and love inspired : 
But when ye lowre, or looke on me askew, 
Then doe I die, as one with lightning fyred. 
But, since that lyfe is more than death desyred, 
Looke ever lovely, as becomes you best ; 
That your bright beams, of my weak eies admyred. 
May kindle living fire within my breast. 
Such life should be the honor of your light. 
Such death the sad ensample of your might. 



XII 

One day I sought with her hart-thrilling eies 
To make a truce, and termes to entertaine : 
All fearlesse then of so false enimies, 
Which sought me to entrap in treasons traine. 
So, as I then disarmed did remaine, 
A wicked ambush which lay hidden long 
In the close covert of her guilefull eyen. 
Thence breaking forth, did thick about me throng. 
Too feeble I t'abide the brunt so strong. 
Was forst to yeeld my selfe into their hands ; 
Who, me captiving streight with rigorous wrong, 
Have ever since me kept in cruell bands. 
So, Ladie, now to you I doo complaine. 
Against your eies, that justice I may gaine. 



SPENSER 103 

XXV 

How long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure, 

And know no end of her owne mysery, 

But wast and weare away in termes unsure, 

Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully ! 

Yet better were attonce to let me die, 5 

And shew the last ensample of your pride ; 

Then to torment me thus with cruelty. 

To prove your powre, which I too well have tride. 

But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide 

A close intent at last to shew me grace ; 10 

Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide. 

As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace ; 

And wish that more and greater they might be, 
That greater meede at last may turne to mee. 

xxxrv 

Lyke as a ship, that through the Ocean wyde. 

By conduct of some star, doth make her way ; 

Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde. 

Out of her course doth wander far astray ! 

So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 5 

Me to direct, with cloudes is over-cast, 

Doe wander now, in darknesse and dismay. 

Through hidden perils round about me plast ; 

Yet hope I well that, when this storme is past, 

My Helice, the loadstar of my lyfe, 10 

Will shine again, and looke on me at last. 

With lovely light to cleare my cloudy grief, 

Till then I wander care full, comfortlesse. 

In secret sorow, and sad pensivenesse. 



104 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD - 

LXVII 

Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace, 

Seeing the game from him escapt away, 

Sits downe to rest him in some shady place, 

With panting hounds beguiled of their prey : 

So, after long pursuit and vaine assay, 5 

When I all weary had the chace forsooke, 

The gentle dear returned the selfe-same way. 

Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke : 

There she, beholding me with mylder looke, 

Sought not to fly, but fearlessee still did bide ; 10 

Till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke, 

And with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde. 

Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wyld, 
So goodly wonne, with her owne will beguyld. 

LXXV 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand ; 

But came the waves, and washed it away : 

Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand ; 

But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray. 

Vayne man, sayd she, that doest in vaine assay 5 

A mortall thing so to immortalize ; 

For I my selve shall lyke to this decay, 

And eek my name bee wyped out lykewize. 

Not so, quod I ; let baser things devize 

To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame : 10 

My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, 

And in the h evens wryte your glorious name. 
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdew. 
Our love shall live, and later life renew. 



RICHARD HOOKER 

(I 554-1 600) 

THE LAWS OF ECCLESIASTICAL POLITY 

The Law of Nations 

Now besides that law which simply concerneth men as 
men, and that which belongeth unto them as they are 
men linked with others in some form of politic society, 
there is a third kind of law which toucheth all such sev- 
eral bodies politic, so far forth as one of them hath pub- 5 
lie commerce with another. And this third is the law of 
nations. Between men and beasts there is no possibihty 
of sociable communion ; because the well-spring of that 
communion is a natural delight which man hath to trans- 
fuse from himself unto others, and to receive from others 10 
into himself, especially those things wherein the excel- 
lency of his kind doth most consist. The chiefest instru- 
ment of human communion therefore is speech, because 
thereby we impart mutually one to another the conceits 
of our reasonable understanding. And for that cause 15 
seeing beasts are not hereof capable, forasmuch as with 
them we can use no such conference, they being in 
degree, although above other creatures on earth to whom 
nature hath denied sense, yet lower than to be socia- 
ble companions of man to whom nature hath given rea- 20 
son; it is of Adam said that amongst the h&d^sts He foitnd 
not for himself any meet companion. Civil society doth 
more content the nature of man than any private kind of 

105 



I06 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

solitary living, because in society this good of mutual par- 
ticipation is so much larger than otherwise. Herewith 25 
notwithstanding we are satisfied, but we covert (if it 
might be) to have a kind of society and fellowship even 
with all mankind. Which thing Socrates intending to 
signify professed himself a citizen, not of this or that 
commonwealth, but of the world. And an effect of that 30 
very natural desire in us, (a manifest token that we wish 
after a sort an universal fellowship with all men,) appear- 
eth by the wonderful delight men have, some to visit 
foreign countries, some to discover nations not heard of 
in former ages, we all to know the affairs and dealings of 35 
other people, yea to be in league of amity with them : 
and this not only for traffic's sake, or to the end that 
when many are confederated each may make the other 
the more strong, but for such cause also as moved the 
Queen of Saba to visit Salomon ; and in a word, because 40 
nature doth presume that how many men there are in the 
w^orld, so many Gods as it were there are, or at leastwise 
such they should be towards men. 

Touching laws which are to serve men in this behalf; 
even as those laws of reason, which (man retaining his 45 
original integrity) had been sufficient to direct each par- 
ticular person in all his affairs and duties, are not suf- 
ficient but require the access of other laws, now that 
man and his offspring are grown thus corrupt and sinful ; 
again, as those laws of polity and regiment, which would 50 
have served men living in public society together with 
that harmless disposition which then they should have 
had, are not able now to serve, v^hen men's iniquity is so 
hardly restrained within any tolerable bounds : in like 
manner, the national laws of mutual commerce between 55 
societies of that former and better quality might have 



HOOKER 107 

been other than now, when nations are so prone to offer 
violence, injury, and wrong. Hereupon hath grown in 
every of these three kinds that distinction between Pri- 
mary and Secondary laws ; the one grounded upon sin- 60 
cere, the other built upon depraved nature. Primary 
laws of nations are such as concern embassage, such as 
belong to the courteous entertainment of foreigners and 
strangers, such as serve for commodious traffic, and the 
like. Secondary laws in the same kind are such as this 65 
present unquiet world is most familiarly acquainted with ; 
I mean laws of arms, which yet are much better known 
than kept. But what matter the law of nations doth con- 
tain I omit to search. 

The strength and virtue of that law is such that no par- 70 
ticular nation can lawfully prejudice the same by any 
their several laws and ordinances, more than a man by 
his private resolutions the law of the whole common- 
wealth or state wherein he liveth. For as civil law, being 
the act of the whole body politic, doth therefore overrule 75 
each several part of the same body ; so there is no rea- 
son that any one commonwealth of itself should to the 
prejudice of another annihilate that whereupon the world 
hath agreed. For which cause, the Lacedemonians for- 
bidding all access of strangers into their coasts are in 80 
that respect both by Josephus and Theodoret deservedly 
blamed, as being enemies to that hospitality which for 
common humanity's sake all the nations on earth should 
embrace. 

Now as there is great cause of communion, and conse- 85 
quently of laws for the maintainence of communion, 
amongst nations ; so amongst nations Christian the like 
in regard even of Christianity hath been always judged 
needful. 



I08 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And in this kind of correspondence amongst nations 90 
the force of general councils doth stand. For as one 
and the same law divine, whereof in the next place we 
are to speak, is unto all Christian churches a rule for the 
chiefest things, by means whereof they all in that respect 
make one Church, as having all but One Lord, one faith, 95 
and one baptism : so the urgent necessity of mutual com- 
munion for preservation of our unity in these things, as 
also for order in some other things convenient to be 
everywhere uniformly kept, maketh it requisite that the 
Church of God here on earth have her laws of spiritual 100 
commerce between Christian nation^; laws by virtue 
whereof all churches may enjoy freely the use of those 
reverend, religious, and sacred consultations, which are 
termed councils general. A thing whereof God's own 
blessed Spirit was the author ; a thing })racticed by the 105 
holy Apostles themselves ; a thing always afterwards kept 
and observed throughout the world ; a thing never other- 
wise than most highly esteemed of, till pride, ambition, 
and tyranny began by factious and vile endeavours to 
abuse that divine invention unto the furtherance of no 
wicked purposes. But as the just authority of civil 
courts and parliaments is not therefore to be abolished, 
because sometime there is cunning used to frame them 
according to the private intents of men overpotent in the 
commonwealth; so the grievous abuse which hath been 115 
of councils should rather cause men to study how so gra- 
cious a thing may again be reduced to that first perfec- 
tion, than in regard of stains and blemishes sithence 
growing to be held for ever in extreme disgrace. 

To speak of this matter as the cause requireth would 120 
require very long discourse. All I will presently say is 
this. Whether it be for the finding out of any thing 



HOOKER 109 

vvhereunto divine law bindeth us, but yet in such sort that 
men are not thereof on all sides resolved ; or for the set- 
ting down of some uniform judgment to stand touching 125 
such things, as being neither way matters of necessity, are 
notwithstanding offensive and scandalous when there is 
open opposition about them ; be it for the ending of 
strifes touching matters of Christian belief, wherein the 
one part may seem to have probable cause of dissenting 130 
from the other ; or be it concerning matters of pohty, 
order and regiment in the church ; I nothing doubt but 
that Christian men should much better frame themselves 
to those heavenly precepts, which our Lord and Saviour 
with so great instancy gave as concerning peace and 135 
unity, if we did all concur in desire to have the use of 
ancient councils again renewed, rather than these pro- 
ceedings continued, which either make all contentions 
endless, or bring them to one only determination, and 
that of all other the worst, which is by sword. 140 



Concerning faith, the principal object whereof is that 
eternal verity which hath discovered the treasures of 
hidden wisdom in Christ ; concerning hope, the highest 
object whereof is that everlasting goodness which in 
Christ doth quicken the dead ; concerning charity, the 145 
final object whereof is that incomprehensible beauty which 
shineth in the countenance of Christ the Son of the living 
God : concerning these virtues, the first of which begin- 
ning here with a weak apprehension of things not seen, 
endeth with the intuitive vision of God in the world to 150 
come ; the second beginning here with a trembling ex- 
pectation of things far removed and as yet but only lieard 
of, endeth with real and actual fruition of that which no 



no FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

tongue can express ; the third beginning here with a weak 
indination of heart towards him unto whom we are not 155 
able to approach, endeth with endless union, the mystery 
whereof is higher than the reach of the thoughts of men ; 
concerning that faith, hope, and charity, without which 
there can be no salvation, was there ever any mention 
made saving only in that law which God himself hath 160 
from heaven revealed? There is not in the Avorld a 
syllable muttered with certain truth concerning any of 
these three, more than hath been supernaturally received 
from the mouth of the eternal God. 

Laws therefore concerning these things are supernat- 165 
ural, both in respect of the manner of delivering them, 
which is divine ; and also in regard of the things deliv- 
ered, which are such as have not in nature any cause from 
which they flow, but were by the voluntary appointment 
of God ordained besides the course of nature, to rectify 170 
natures obliquity withal. 



Wherefore that here we may briefly end : of Law there 
can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the 
bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world ; all 
things in heaven and earth do her homage, the very least 175 
as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from 
her power ; both Angels and men and creatures of what 
condition soever, though each in different sort and man- 
ner, yet all with uniform consent, admiring her as the 
mother of their peace and joy. iSo 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

(1564— 1593) 

THE JEW OF MALTA 

ACT I 

Scene I. — Barabas discovered in his Counting-house, with 
Heaps of Gold befot'e hi?n 

Bar. So that of thus much that return was made : 
And of the third part of the Persian ships, 
There was the venture summed and satisfied. 
As for those Sabans, and the men of Uz, 
That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, 5 

Here have I purst their paltry silverhngs. 
Fie j what a trouble 'tis to count this trash. 
Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay 
The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, 
Whereof a man may easily in a day 10 

Tell that which may maintain him all his life. 
The needy groom that never fingered groat, 
Would make a miracle of thus much coin : 
But he whose steel-barred coffers are crammed full. 
And all his lifetime. hath been tired, 15 

Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it, 
Would in his age be loth to labour so, 
And for a pound to sweat himself to death. 
Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, 
That trade in metal of the purest mould; 20 

III 



112 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks 

Without control can pick his riches up, 

And in his house heap pearls hke pebble-stones, 

Receive them free, and sell them by the weight ; 

Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, and amethysts, 25 

Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, 

Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, 

And seld-seen costly stones of so great price, 

As one of them indifferently rated, 

And of a carat of this quantity, 30 

May serve in peril of calamity 

To ransom great kings from captivity. 

This is the ware wherein consists my wealth ; 

And thus methinks should men of judgment frame 

Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, 35 

And as their wealth increaseth, so inclose 

Infinite riches in a little room. 

But now how stands the wind? 

Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill? 

Ha ! to the east? yes : see, how stand the vanes? 40 

East and by south : why then I hope my ships 

I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles 

Are gotten up by Nilus' winding banks : 

Mine argosies from Alexandria, 

Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, 45 

Are smoothly gliding down by Candy shore 

To Malta, through our Mediterranean sea. 

But who comes here ? 

Enter a Merchant 

How now? 
Merch. Barabas, thy ships are safe, 
Riding in Malta-road : and all the merchants 50 



MARLOWE 113 

With other merchants are safe arrived, 
And have sent ine to know whether yourself 
AVill come and custom them. 

Bar. The ships are safe thou say'st, and richly fraught. 

Mej-ch. They are. 55 

Bar. Why then go bid them come ashore, 
And bring with them their bills of entry : 
I hope our credit in the custom-house 
Will serve as well as I were present there. 
Go send 'em threescore camels, thirty mules, 
And twenty waggons to bring up the ware. 60 

But art thou master in a ship of mine. 
And is thy credit not enough for that? 

Merck. The very custom barely comes to more 
Than many merchants of the town are worth, 
And therefore far exceeds my credit, sir. 65 

Bar. Go tell 'em the Jew of Malta sent thee, man : 
Tush ! who amongst 'em knows not Barabas? 

Merch. I go. 

Bar. So then, there's somewhat come. 
Sirrah, which of my ships art thou master of? 

Merch. Of the Speranza, sir. 

Bar. And saw'st thou not 70 

Mine argosy at Alexandria? 

Thou could'st not come from Egypt, or by Caire, 
But at the entry there into the sea, 
Where Nilus pays his tribute to the main, 
Thou needs must sail by Alexandria. 75 

Merch. I neither saw them, nor inquired of them : 
But this we heard some of our seamen say. 
They wondered how you durst with so much wealth 
Trust such a crazed vessel, and so far. 

Bar. Tush, they are wise ! I know her and her strength. So 
I 



114 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

But go, go thou thy ways, discharge thy ship, 

And bid ray factor bring his loading in. \^Exit Merch. 

And yet I wonder at this argosy. 

Enter a second Merchant 

2d Merch. Thine argosy from Alexandria, 
Know, Barabas, doth ride in Malta-road, S5 

Laden with riches, and exceeding store 
Of Persian silks, of gold, and orient pearl. 

Bar. How chance you came not with those other ships 
That sailed by Egypt? 

2d Merch. Sir, we saw 'em not. 90 

Bar. Belike they coasted round by Candy shore 
About their oils, or other businesses. 
But 'twas ill done of you to come so far 
Without the aid or conduct of their ships. 

2d Merch. Sir, we were wafted by a Spanish fleet, 95 

That never left us till within a league. 
That had the galleys of the Turk in chase. 

Bar. O ! — they were going up to Sicily : — 
Well, go. 

And bid the merchants and my men despatch 100 

And come ashore, and see the fraught discharged. 

2d Merch. I go. \_Exit. 

Bar. Thus trowls our fortune in by land and sea. 
And thus are we on every side enriched : 
These are the blessings promised to the Jews, 105 

And herein was old Abram's happiness : 
What more may heaven do for earthly man 
Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps. 
Ripping the bowels of the earth for them. 
Making the seas their servants, and the winds jio 

To drive their substance with successful blasts? 



MARLOWE 115 

Who hateth me but for my happiness ? 

Or who is honoured now but for his wealth ? 

Rather had I a Jew be hated thus, 

Than pitied in a Christian poverty : 115 

For I can see no fruits in all their faith, 

But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride, 

AVhich methinks fits not their profession. 

Haply some hapless man hath conscience, 

And for his conscience lives in beggary. 120 

They say we are a scattered nation : 

I cannot tell, but we have scambled up 

More wealth by far than those that brag of faith. 

There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece, 

Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal, 125 

Myself in Malta, some in Italy, 

Many in France, and wealthy every one ; 

Ay, wealthier far than any Christian. 

I must confess we come not to be kings ; 

That's not our fault : alas, our number's few, 130 

And crowns come either by succession. 

Or urged by force ; and nothing violent 

Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent. 

Give us a peaceful rule, make Christians kings, 

That thirst so much for principality. 135 

I have no charge, nor many children. 

But one sole daughter, whom I hold as dear 

As Agammennon did his Iphigen : 

And all I have is hers. But who comes here? 

Enter three Jews 

1st Jew. Tush, tell not me ; 'twas done of policy. 140 

2d Jeiv. Come, therefore, let us go to Barabas, 
For he can counsel best in these affairs ; 



Il6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And here he comes. 

Bar. VVhy, how now, countrymen ? 
Why flock you thus to me in multitudes ? . 145 

What accident's betided to the Jews ? 

1st Jew. A fleet of warhke galleys, Barabas, 
Are come from Turkey, and lie in our road : 
And they this day sit in the council-house 
To entertain them and their embassy. 150 

Bar. Why, let 'em come, so they come not to war ; 
Or let 'em war, so we be conquerors — 
Nay, let 'em combat, conquer, and kill all ! 
{Aside) So they spare me, my daughter, and my wealth. 

1st Jew. Were it for confirmation of a league, 155 

They would not come in warlike manner thus. 

2d Jew. I fear their coming will afflict us all. 

Bar. Fond men ! what dream you of their multitudes ? 
What need they treat of peace that are in league ? 
The Turks and those of Malta are in league. 160 

Tut, tut, there is some other matter in't. 

istjezv. Why, Barabas, they come for peace or war. 

Bar. Haply for neither, but to pass along 
Towards Venice by the Adriatic sea ; 

With whom they have attempted many times, 165 

But never could effect their stratagem. 

jd Jew. And very wisely said. It may be so. 

2d Jew. But there's a meeting in the senate-house, 
And aU the Jews in Malta must be there. 

Bar. Hum ; all the Jews in Malta must be there? 170 
Ay, like enough, why then let every man 
Provide him, and be there for fashion-sake. 
If anything shall there concern our state. 
Assure yourselves I'll look {aside) unto myself. 

1st Jew. I know you wifl. Well, brethren, let us go. 175 



MARLOWE 117 

2d Jew. Let's take our leaves. Farewell, good Barabas, 
Ba7'. Farewell, Zaareth ; farewell, Temainte. 

\_Exeiitit Jews. 

And, Barabas, now search this secret out ; 

Summon thy senses, call thy wits together : 

These silly men mistake the matter clean. 180 

Long to the Turk did Malta contribute ; 

Which tribute, all in policy I fear. 

The Turks have let increase to such a sum 

As all the wealth of Malta cannot pay; 

And now by that advantage thinks belike 185 

To seize upon the town : ay, that he seeks. 

Howe'er the world go, I'll make sure for one. 

And seek in time to intercept the worst. 

Warily guarding that which I ha' got. 

Ego viihimet sum semper proximus. 

Why, let 'em enter, let 'em take the town. \^Exit. 

Scene II. — Inside the Council-house 

Enter Ferneze, Governor of Malta, Knights, and Officers ; 
7net by Calymath and Bassoes of the Turk 

Fern. Now, Bassoes, what demand you at our hands? 

1st Bas. Know, Knights of Malta, that we came from 
Rhodes, 
From Cyprus, Candy, and those other Isles 
That lie betwixt the Mediterranean seas. 

Fern. What's Cyprus, Candy, and those other Isles 5 

To us, or Malta ? What at our hands demand ye ? 

Cal. The ten years' tribute that remains unpaid. 

Fern. Alas ! my lord, the sun\is over-great, 
I hope your highness will consider us. 

Cal. I wish, grave governor, 'twere in my power 10 



Il8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

To favour you, but 'tis my father's cause, 
Wherein I may not, nay, I dare not dally. 

Fern. Then give us leave, great Selim Calymath, 

[ Consults apart zvith the Knights. 

CaL Stand all aside, and let the knights determine. 
And send to keep our galleys under sail, 15 

For happily we shall not tarry here ; 
Now, governor, say, how are you resolved? 

Fern. Thus : since your hard conditions are such 
That you will needs have ten years' tribute past. 
We may have time to make collection 20 

Amongst the inhabitants of Malta for't. 

1st Bass. That's more than is in our commission. 

CaL What, Callipine ! a little courtesy. 
Let's know their time, perhaps it is not long ; 
And 'tis more kingly to obtain by peace 25 

Than to enforce conditions by constraint. 
What respite ask you, governor? 

Fei'u. But a month. 

Cat. We grant a month, but see you keep your promise. 
Now launch our galleys back again to sea, 30 

Where we'll attend the respite you have ta'en. 
And for the money send our messenger. 
Farewell, great governor and brave Knights of Malta. 

Fern. And all good fortune wait on Calymath ! 

\_Exeynt Calymath and Bassoes. 
Go one and call those Jews of Malta hither : 35 

Were they not summoned to appear to-day? 

Off. They were, my lord, and here they come. 

Filter Barabas a7id three Jews 

1st Knight. Have you determined what to say to them? 
Fern. Yes; give me leave: — and, Hebrews, now come 
near. 



MARLOWE 119 

From the Emperor of Turkey is arrived 40 

Great Selim Calymath, his highness' son, 

To levy of us ten years' tribute past ; 

Now then, here know that it concerneth us — 

Bai'. Then, good my lord, to keep your quiet still, 
Your lordship shall do well to let them have it. 45 

Feni. Soft, Barabas, there's more 'longs to't than so. 
To what this ten years' tribute will amount. 
That we have cast, but cannot compass it 
By reason of the wars that robbed our store ; 
And therefore are we to request your aid. 50 

Ba7\ Alas, my lord, we are no soldiers : 
And what's our aid against so great a prince ? 

1st Knight. Tut, Jew, we know thou art no soldier ; 
Thou art a merchant and a moneyed man. 
And 'tis thy money, Barabas, we seek. 55 

Bar. How, my lord ! my money ? 

Fern. Thine and the rest. , 
For, to be short, amongst you't must be had. 

1st Jeiv. Alas, my lord, the most of us are poor. 

Fern. Then let the rich increase your portions. 60 

Bar. Are strangers with your tribute to be taxed ? 

2d Knight. Have strangers leave with us to get their 
wealth ? 
Then let them with us contribute. 

Bar. How ! equally ? 

Fern. No, Jew, like infidels. 65 

For through our sufferance of your hateful lives, 
Who stand accursed in the sight of Heaven, 
These taxes and afflictions are befallen. 
And therefore thus we are determined 
Read there the articles of our decrees. 70 

Officer {reads). "First, the tribute-money of the Turks 



I20 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

shall all be levied amongst the Jews, and each of them to 
pay one half of his estate." 

Bar. How, half his estate ? {Aside) I hope you mean 
not mine. 

Fern. Read on. 75 

Off. {reading). " Secondly, he that denies to pay shall 
straight become a Christian." 

Bar. How ! a Christian ? {Aside) Hum, what's here to 
do? 

Off. {reading). " Lastly, he that denies this shall abso- 
lutely lose all he has." 80 

The three Jews. O, my lord, we will give half. 

Bar. O earth-mettled villains, and no Hebrews born ! 
And will you basely thus submit yourselves 
To leave your goods to their arbitrament? 

Fern. Why, Barabas, wilt thou be christened? 85 

Bar. No, governor, I will be convertite. 

Fern. Then pay thy half. 

Bar. Why, know you what you did by this device? 
Half of my substance is a city's wealth. 
Governor, it was not got so easily. 90 

Nor will I part so slightly therewithal. 

Fern. Sir, half is the penalty of our decree. 
Either pay that or we will seize on all. 

Bar. Corpo di Dio! stay ! you shall have the half; 
Let me be used but as my brethren are. 95 

Fern. No, Jew, thou hast denied the articles, 
And now it cannot be recalled. 

\_Fxeunt Officers on a sign fro?n Ferneze. 

Bar. Will you then steal my goods ? 
Is theft the ground of your rehgion? 

Fern. No, Jew, we take particularly thine 100 

To save the ruin of a multitude : 



MARLOWE 121 

And better one want for the common good 

Than many perish for a private man : 

Yet, Barabas, we will not banish thee, 

But here in Malta, where thou gott'st thy wealth, 105 

Live still ; and, if thou canst, get more. 

Bar. Christians, what or how can I multiply? 
Of naught is nothing made. 

ist Knight. From naught at first thou cam'st to little 
wealth. 
From little unto more, from more to most : no 

If your first curse fall heavy on thy head, 
And make thee poor and scorned of all the world, 
'Tis not our fault, but thy inherent sin. 

Bai: What, bring you Scripture to confirm your wrongs? 
Preach me not out of my possessions. 115 

Some Jews are wicked, as all Christians are : 
But say the tribe that I descended of 
Were all in general cast away from sin, 
Shall I be tried by their transgression? 

The man that dealeth righteously shall live : 120 

And which of you can charge me otherwise ? 

Fern. Out, wretched Barabas. 
Sham'st thou not thus to justify thyself, 
As if we knew not thy profession? 

If thou rely upon thy righteousness, 125 

Be patient and thy riches will increase. 
Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness : 
And covetousness, O, 'tis a monstrous sin. 

Bar. Ay, but theft is worse : tush ! take not from me 
then, 
For that is theft ! and if you rob me thus, 130 

I must be forced to steal and compass more. 

1st Knight. Grave governor, listen not to his exclaims. 



122 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Convert his mansion to a nunnery ; 
His house will harbour many holy nuns. 

Fern. It shall be so. 135 

Reenter Officers 

Now, officers, have you done ? 

Off. Ay, my lord, we have seized upon the goods 
And wares of Barabas, which being valued. 
Amount to more than all the wealth of Malta. 
And of the other we have seized half. 140 

Fern. Then we'll take order for the residue. 

Bar. Well then, my lord, say, are you satisfied? 
You have my goods, my money, and my wealth. 
My ships, my store, and all that I enjoyed ; 
And, having all, you can request no more ; 145 

Unless your unrelenting flinty hearts 
Suppress all pity in your stony breasts, 
And now shall move you to bereave my life. 

Fern. No, Barabas, to stain our hands with blood 
Is far from us and our profession. 150 

Bar. Why, I esteem the injury far less 
To take the lives of miserable men 
Than be the causers of their misery. 
You have my wealth, the labor of my life, 
The comfort of mine age, my children's hope, 155 

And therefore ne'er distinguish of the wrong. 

Fern. Content thee, Barabas, thou hast naught but 
right. 

Bar. Your extreme right does me exceeding wrong : 
But take it to you, i' the devil's name. 

Fe7ii. Come, let us in, and gather of these goods 160 

The money for this tribute of the Turk. 

ist Knight. 'Tis necessary that be looked unto : 



MARLOWE 123 

For if we break our day, we break the league, 
And that will prove but simple policy. 

\_Exeunt all except Barabas and the Jews. 

Ba7\ Ay, poHcy ! that's their profession, 165 

And not simplicity, as they suggest. 
The plagues of Egypt, and the curse of Heaven, 
Earth's barrenness, and all men's hatred 
Inflict upon them, thou great Pfinuis Motoi'! 
And here upon my knees, striking the earth, 170 

I ban their souls to everlasting pains 
And extreme tortures of the fiery deep, 
That thus have dealt with me in my distress, 

1st Jew. O yet be patient, gentle Barabas. 

Bar. O silly brethren, born to see this day ; 175 

Why stand you thus unmoved with my laments? 
Why weep you not to think upon my wrongs? 
Why pine not I, and die in this distress? 

1st Jew. Why, Barabas, as hardly can we brook 
The cruel handling of ourselves in this ; iSo 

Thou seest they have taken half our goods. 

Bar. Why did you yield to their extortion? 
You were a multitude, and I but one : 
And of me only have they taken all. 

1st Jeiv. Yet, brother Barabas, remember Job. 185 

Bar. What tell you me of Job? I wot his wealth 
Was written thus : he had seven thousand sheep, 
Three thousand camels, and two hundred yoke 
Of labouring oxen, and five hundred 

She-asses : but for every one of those, 190 

Had they been valued at indifferent rate, 
I had at liome, and in mine argosy. 
And other ships that came from Egypt last. 
As much as would have bought his beasts and him. 



124 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And yet have kept enough to hve upon : 195 

So that not he, but I may curse the day, 

Thy fatal birth-day, forlorn Barabas ; 

And henceforth wish for an eternal night, 

That clouds of darkness may inclose my flesh, 

And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes : 200 

For only I have toiled to inherit here 

The months of vanity, and loss of time, 

And painful nights, have been appointed me. 

2d Jew. Good Barabas, be patient. 

Bai'. Ay, I pray, leave me in my patience. You, 205 

Were ne'er possessed of wealth, are pleased with want ; 
But give him Hberty at least to mourn. 
That in a field amidst his enemies 
Doth see his soldiers slain, himself disarmed, 
And knows no means of his recovery : 210 

Ay, let me sorrow for this sudden chance ; 
'Tis in the trouble of my spirit I speak ; 
Great injuries are not so soon forgot. 

1st Jew. Come, let us leave him ; in his ireful mood 
Our words will but increase his ecstasy. 215 

2d Jeiv. On, then ; but trust me, 'tis a misery 
To see a man in such affliction. — 
Farewell, Barabas ! \_Exeunt the three Jews. 

Bar. Ay, fare you well. 
See the simplicity of these base slaves, 220 

Who, for the villains have no wit themselves, 
Think me to be a senseless lump of clay 
That will with every water wash to dirt : 
No, Barabas is born to better chance. 

And framed of finer mould than common men, 225 

That measure naught but by the present time. 
A reaching thought will search his deepest wits, 



MARLOWE 



125 



And cast with cunning for the time to come : 

For evils are apt to happen every day. — 

Enter Abigail 

But whither wends my beauteous Abigail ? 230 

! what has made my lovely daughter sad? 
What, woman ! moan not for a little loss : 
Thy father hath enough in store for thee. 

Abig. Not for myself, but aged Barabas : 
Father, for thee lamenteth Abigail : 235 

But I will learn to leave these fruitless tears, 
And, urged thereto with my afflictions, 
With fierce exclaims run to the senate-house, 
And in the senate reprehend them all. 

And rend their hearts with tearing of my hair, 240 

Till they reduce the wrongs done to my father. 

Bar. No, Abigail, things past recovery 
Are hardly cured with exclamations. 
Be silent, daughter, sufferance breeds ease, 
Andlime may yield us an occasion 245 

Which on the sudden can not serve the turn. 
Besides, my girl, think me not all so fond 
As negligently to forego so much 
Without provision for thyself and me : 

Ten thousand portagues, besides great pearls, 250 

Rich costly jewels, and stones infinite. 
Fearing the worst of this before it fell, 

1 closely hid. 

Abig. Where, father? 

Bar. In my house, my girl. 255 

Abig. Then shall they ne'er be seen of Barabas : 
For they have seized upon thy house and wares. 



126 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Baj\ But they will give me leave once more, I trow, 
To go into my house. 

Abig. That they may not : 260 

For there I left the governor placing nuns. 
Displacing me ; and of thy house they mean 
To make a nunnery, where none but their own sect 
Must enter in ; men generally barred. 

Ba?'. My gold 1 my gold ! and all my wealth is gone ! 265 
You partial heavens, have I deserved this plague ! 
What, will you thus oppose me, luckless stars, 
To make me desperate in my poverty ? 
And knowing me impatient in distress, 

Think me so mad as I will hang myself, 270 

That I may vanish o'er the earth in air. 
And leave no memory that e'er I was? 
No, I will live ; nor loathe I this my life : 
And, since you leave me in the ocean thus 
To sink or swim, and put me to my shifts, 275 

I'll rouse my senses and awake myself. 
Daughter ! I have it : thou perceiv'st the plight 
Wherein these Christians have oppressed me : 
Be ruled by me, for in extremity 
We ought to make bar of no policy. 280 

Abig. Father, whate'er it be to injure them 
That have so manifestly wronged us. 
What will not Abigail attempt ? 

Bar. Why, so ; 
Then thus, thou told'st me they have turned my house 285 
Into a nunnery, and some nuns are there ? 

Alng. I did. 

Bar. Then, Abigail, there must my girl 
Entreat the abbess to be entertained. 

Abig. How, as a nun? 290 



MARLOWE 127 

Bar. Ay, daughter, for religion 
Hides many mischiefs from suspicion. 

Abig. Ay, but, father, they will suspect me there. 

Bar. Let 'em suspect; but be thou so precise 
As they may think it done of holiness. 295 

Entreat 'em fair, and give them friendly speech. 
And seem to them as if thy sins were great. 
Till thou hast gotten to be entertained. 

Abig. Thus, father, shall I much dissemble. 

Bar. Tush ! 300 

As good dissemble that thou never mean'st, 
As first mean truth and then dissemble it, — 
A counterfeit profession is better 
Than unseen hypocrisy. 

Abig. Well, father, say that I be entertained, 305 

What then shall follow? 

Bar. This shall follow then ; 
There have I hid, close underneath the plank 
That runs along the upper-chamber floor, 
The gold and jewels which I kept for thee. 310 

But here they come ; be cunning, Abigail. 

Abig. Then, father, go with me. 

Bar. No, Abigail, in this 
It is not necessary I be seen : 

For I will seem offended with thee for't : 315 

Be close, my girl, for this must fetch my gold. \TJiey retire. 



128 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ACT II 

Scene I. — Before Barabas's House, now a Nunnery 

Enter Barabas with a light 

Bar. Thus, like the sad presaging raven that tolls 
The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, 
And in the shadow of the silent night 
Doth shake contagion from her sable wings ; 
Vexed and tormented runs poor Barabas 5 

With fatal curses towards these Christians. 
The uncertain pleasures of swift-footed time 
Have ta'en their flight, and left me in despair ; 
And of my former riches rests no more 
But bare remembrance, like a soldier's scar, 10 

That has no further comfort for his maim. 
O thou, that with a fiery pillar led'st 
The sons of Israel through the dismal shades, 
Light Abraham's offspring ; and direct the hand 
Of Abigail this night ; or let the day 15 

Turn to eternal darkness after this ! 
No sleep can fasten on my watchful eyes. 
Nor quiet enter my distempered thoughts. 
Till I have answer of my Abigail. 

Enter Abigail above 

Abig. Now have I happily espied a time 20 

To search the plank my father did appoint ; 
And here behold, unseen, where I have found 
The gold, the pearls, and jewels, which he hid. 

Bar. Now I remember those old women's words, 
Who in my wealth would tell me winter's tales, 25 



MARLOWE 129 

And speak of spirits and ghosts that ghde by night 

About the place where treasure hath been hid : 

And now methinks that I am one of those : 

For whilst I live, here lives my soul's sole hope, 

And, when I die, here shall my spirit walk. 30 

Abig, Now that my father's fortune were so good 
As but to be about this happy place ; 
'Tis not so happy : yet when we parted last. 
He said he would attend me in the morn. 
Then, gentle sleep, where'er his body rests, 35 

Give charge to Morpheus that he may dream 
A golden dream, and of the sudden wake. 
Come and receive the treasure I have found. 

Bar. Bueno para todos mi ganado no era : 
As good go on as sit so sadly thus. 40 

But stay, what star shines yonder in the east ? 
The loadstar of my life, if Abigail. 
Who's there? 

Abig. Who's that? 

Bar. Peace, Abigail, 'tis I. 45 

Abig. Then, father, here receive thy happiness. 

Bar. Hast thou't? 

Abig. Here, {thro7vs down the bags) hast thou't? 
There's more, and more, and more. 

Bar. O my girl, 50 

My gold, my fortune, my felicity ! 
Strength to my soul, death to mine enemy ! 
Welcome the first beginner of my bliss ! 
O Abigail, Abigail, that I had thee here too ! 
Then my desires were fully satisfied : 55 

But I will practise thy enlargement thence : 
O girl ! O gold ! O beauty ! O my bliss ! \_BIugs the bags. 

Abig. Father, it draweth towards midnight now, 

K 



I30 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And 'bout this time the nuns begin to wake ; 

To shun suspicion, therefore, let us part. 60 

Bai\ Farewell, my joy, and by my fingers take 
A kiss from him that sends it from his soul. 

\_Exit Abigail above. 
Now Phoebus ope the eyelids of the day, 
And for the raven wake the morning lark. 
That I may hover with her in the air ; 65 

Singing o'er these, as she does o'er her young, 
Hermoso placer de los dineivs. \_Exit. 



THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 

Come live with me, and be my love ; 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dales and fields, 
Woods or steepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit upon the rocks, 5 

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses. 

And a thousand fragrant posies ; 10 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 

Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair-lined slippers for the cold, 15 

With buckles of the purest gold ; 



MARLOWE 13T 

A belt of straw and ivy buds, 

With coral clasp and amber studs : 

An if these pleasures may thee move, 

Come live with me, and be my love. 20 

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May morning : 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my love. 



HERO AND LEANDER 

'Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid? 

Ay me ! such words as these should I abhor, 

And yet I hke them for the orator.' 

With that Leander stoop'd to have embrac'd her, 

But from his spreading arms away she cast her, 5 

And thus bespake him : ' Gentle youth, forbear 

To touch the sacred garments which I wear. 

Upon a rock, and underneath a hill. 

Far from the town, (where all is whist and still, 

Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand, 10 

Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land. 

Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus 

In silence of the night to visit us,) 

My turret stands ; and there, God knows, I play 

With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day. 15 

A dwarfish beldam bears me company. 

That hops about the chamber where I lie. 

And spends the night, that might be better spent. 

In vain discourse and apish merriment : — 

Come thither.' 20 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

(1564— 1616) 

SONNETS 

XVIII 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 
And summer's lease hath all too short a date : 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; 
And every fair from fair sometime declines, 
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd ; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ovvest ; 
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade. 
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st : 

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 



SHAKESPEARE 



XXIX 



133 



When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state, 

And trouble deaf heaven with ray bootless cries, 

And look upon myself, and curse my fate, 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 5 

Featured hke him, like him with friends possess'd. 

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least ; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 

Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 10 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 

For thy sweet love rememb'd such wealth brings. 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 



XXX 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : 

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 

And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe. 

And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight : 

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone. 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 

Which I new pay as if not paid before. 

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. 
All losses are restored and sorrows end. 



T34 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

XXXIII 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen 

Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 

Kissing with golden foce the meadows green, 

Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ; 

Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 5 

With ugly rack on his celestial face, 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide. 

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : 

Even so my sun one early morn did shine 

With all-triumphant splendour on my brow ; lo 

But, out, alack ! he was but one hour mine, 

The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. 

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 

Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. 



XXXVIII 

How can my Muse want subject to invent, 

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse 

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent 

For every vulgar paper to rehearse ? 

O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me 

Worthy perusal stand against thy sight ; 

For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, 

When thou thyself dost give invention light? 

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth 

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate ; 

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth 

Eternal numbers to outlive long date. 

If my slight Muse do please these curious days, 
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. 



SHAKESPEA RE 1 3 5 



LX 



Like as the waves made toward the pebbled shore, 
So do our minutes hasten to their end ; 
Each changing place with that which goes before, 
In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
Nativity, once in the main of hght, 
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, 
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight. 
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. 
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth 
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, 
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth. 
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow : 
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, 
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 



LXVI 



Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, 

As, to behold desert a beggar born. 

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity. 

And purest faith unhappily forsworn. 

And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, 5 

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, 

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced. 

And strength by limping sway disabled, 

And art made tongue-tied by authority. 

And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, 10 

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity. 

And captive good attending captain ill : 

Tired with all these, from these would I be gone. 
Save that, to die, I leave ray love alone. 



i;^6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

LXXXVII 

Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing, 
And like enough thou knovv'st thy estimate : 
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; 
My bonds in thee are all determinate. 
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? 5 

And for that riches where is my deserving ? 
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, 
And so my patent back again is swerving. 
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing, 
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking ; 10 

So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, 
Comes home again, on better judgement making. 
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, 
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. 



XCIII 

So shall I live, supposing thou art true, 
Like a deceived husband ; so love's face 
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new ; 
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place : 
For there can live no hatred in thine eye, 
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. 
In many's look the false heart's history 
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange, 
But heaven in thy creation did decree 
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ; 
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be. 
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. 
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow. 
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show. 



SHAKESPEARE 



XCIV 



137 



They that have power to hurt and will do none, 
That do not do the thing they most do show, 
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, 
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; 
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces 
And husband nature's riches from expense ; 
They are the lords and owners of their faces. 
Others but stewards of their excellence. 
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, 
Though to itself it only live and die, 
But if that flower with base infection meet, 
The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ; 

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. 



cm 

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth, 
That having such a scope to show her pride. 
The argument, all bare, is of more worth 
Than when it hath my added praise beside ! 
O, blame me not, if I no more can write ! 
Look in your glass, and there appears a face 
That over-goes my blunt invention quite, 
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. 
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend. 
To mar the subject that before was well? 
For to no other pass my verses tend 
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ; 

And more, much more, than in my verse can sit, 
Your own glass shows you when you look in it. 



138 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

CIV 

To me, fair friend, you never can be old. 

For as you were when first your eye I eyed, 

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold 

Have from the forest shook three summers' pride, 

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd 

In process of the seasons have I seen. 

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd. 

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. 

Ah, yet doth beauty, hke a dial-hand, 

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived ; 

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, 

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived : 

For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; 

Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. 



cvi 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights. 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, 
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, 
Of hand, of foot, of hp, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have express'd 
Even such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth to sing : 
For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 



SHAKESPEARE 1 3 9 

CVII 

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul 
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, 
Can yet the lease of my true love control, 
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. 
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, 5 

And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; 
Incertainties now crown themselves assured, 
And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 
Now with the drops of this most balmy time 
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, 10 
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, 
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : 
And thou in this shalt find thy monument. 
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 



CXVI 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 

Admit impediments. Love is not love 

Which alters when it alteration finds, 

Or bends with the remover to remove : 

O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 

It is the star to every wandering bark. 

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 

Within his bending sickle's compass come ; 

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 

If this be error and upon me proved, 

I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 



I40 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

CXLVI 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
(Fool'd by) these rebel powers that thee array, 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. 
Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's end ? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more : 

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men. 
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 



CXLVIII 

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head. 
Which have no correspondence with true sight? 
Or, if they have, where is my judgement fled. 
That censures falsely what they see aright? 
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote. 
What means the world to say it is not so ? 
If it be not, then love doth well denote 
Love's eye is not so true as all men's : no, 
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true. 
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears ? 
No marvel then, though I mistake my view ; 
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears. 

O cunning Love ! with tears thou keep'st me bhnd. 
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. 



SHAKESPEARE 1 4 1 

Under the greenwood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry note 

Unto the sweet bird's throat. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither : 

Here shall he see no enemy 
But Winter and rough weather. 



Where the bee sucks, there suck I : 

In a cowslip's bell I He ; 

There I couch, when owls do cry : 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily. 

Merrily, merrily shall I live now, 

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough ! 



Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands : 
Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd 

The wild waves whist. 
Foot it featly, here and there ; 
And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. 
Hark, hark ! 
Bow-wow. 
The watch-dogs bark : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark, hark ! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticleer 
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. 



142 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind ! 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen, 
Because thou art foreseen, 5 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly ; 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 

Then heigh-ho, the holly ! 

This life is mere folly. lo 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ! 
That dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot : 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 35 

As friend remember'd not. 
Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! etc. 



Hark, hark ! the lark at Heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
And winding Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes : 
With everything that pretty is. 

My lady sweet, arise ; 
Arise, arise ! 



SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 

(1611) 

EXODUS 15 

Moses' Song of Deliverance 

Then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song 
unto the Lord, and spake, saying, I will sing unto the 
Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously ; the horse and 
his rider hath he thrown into the sea. The Lord is my 
strength and song, and he is become my salvation ; he 5 
is my God, and I will prepare him an habitation ; my 
father's God, and I will exalt him. The Lord is a man 
of war; the Lord is his name. Pharaoh's chariots and 
his host hath he cast into the sea ; his chosen captains 
also are drowned in the Red sea. The depths have cov- 10 
ered them ; they sank into the bottom as a stone. Thy 
right hand, O Lord, is become glorious in power; thy 
right hand, O Lord, hath dashed in pieces the enemy. 
And in the greatness of thine excellency thou hast over- 
thrown them that rose up against thee ; thou sentest forth 15 
thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. And with 
the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, 
the floods stood upright as an heap, and the depths were 
congealed in the heart of the sea. The enemy said, I 
will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil ; my 20 
lust shall be satisfied upon them ; I will draw my sword, 
my hand shall destroy them. Thou didst blow with thy 

143 



144 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

wind, the sea covered them ; they sank as lead in the 
mighty waters. 

Who is hke unto thee, O Lord, among the gods? 25 
who is hke thee, glorious in holiness, fearful in praises, 
doing wonders? Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, 
the earth swallowed them. Thou in thy mercy hast 
led forth the people which thou hast redeemed; thou 
hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habi- 30 
tation. The people shall hear, and be afraid ; sorrow 
shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina. Then 
the dukes of Edom shall be amazed ; the mighty men 
of Moab, trembling shall take hold upon them ; all the 
inhabitants of Canaan shall melt away. Fear and dread 35 
shall fall upon them ; by the greatness of thine arm they 
shall be as still as a stone ; till thy people pass over, 
O Lord, till the people pass over which thou hast pur- 
chased. Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in 
the mountain of thine inheritance, in the place, O Lord, 40 
which thou hast made for thee to dwell in, in the sanc- 
tuary, O Lord, which thy hands have established. The 
Lord shall reign for ever and ever. For the horse of 
Pharaoh went in with his chariots and with his horsemen 
into the sea, and the Lord brought again the waters of 45 
the sea upon them ; but the children of Israel went on 
dry land in the midst of the sea. And Miriam the 
prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her 
hand ; and all the women went out after her with tim- 
brels and with dances. And Miriam answered them, 50 
Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously ; 
the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea. 

So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they 
went out in the wilderness of Shur ; and they went three 
days in the wilderness, and found no water. And when 55 



SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 1 45 

they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters 
of Marah, for they were bitter ; theirefore the name of it 
was called Marah. And the people murmured against 
Moses, saying, What shall we drink? And he cried unto 
the Lord ; and the Lord showed him a tree, which when 60 
he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet. 
There he made for them a statute and an ordinance, and 
there he proved them, and said, If thou wilt diligently 
hearken to the voice of the Lord thy God, and wilt do 
that which is right in his sight, and wilt give ear to his 65 
commandments, and keep all his statutes, I will put none 
of these diseases upon thee, which I have brought upon 
the Egyptians ; for I am the Lord that healeth thee. 
And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of 
water, and threescore and ten palm trees ; and they 70 
encamped there by the waters. 



2 SAMUEL I : 17-27 

David's La^ient over Saul and Jonathan 

And David lamented with this lamentation over Saul 
and over Jonathan his son : (also he bade them teach 
the children of Judah the use of the bow ; behold, it is 
written in the book of Jasher.) The beauty of Israel is 
slain upon thy high places ; how are the mighty fallen ! 
Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Aske- 
lon ; lest the daughters of the Phihstines rejoice, lest the 
daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. Ye mountains 
of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, 
upon you, nor fields of offerings ; for there the shield of 
the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though 

L 



146 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

he had not been anointed with oil. From the blood of 
the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan 
turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not 
empty. Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in 15 
their lives, and in their death they were not divided; 
they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than 
hons. Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who 
clothed you in scarlet, with other dehghts, who put on 
ornaments of gold upon your apparel. How are the 20 
mighty fallen in the midst of the battle ! O Jonathan, 
thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for 
thee, my brother Jonathan ; very pleasant hast thou been 
unto me ; thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love 
of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons 25 
of war perished ! 



PSALM 103 

Bless the Lord, O my soul ; and all that is within 
me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and 
forget not all his benefits. Who forgiveth all thine in- 
iquities ; who healeth all thy diseases. Who redeemeth 
thy life from destruction ; who crowneth thee with loving- 5 
kindness and tender mercies. Who satisfieth thy mouth 
with good things ; so that thy youth is renewed like the 
eagle's. The Lord executeth righteousness and judgment 
for all that are oppressed. He made known his ways 
unto Moses, his acts unto the children of Israel. The 10 
Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plen- 
teous in mercy. He will not always chide ; neither will 
he keep his anger for ever. He hath not dealt with us 
after our sins ; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities. 
For as the heaven is high above the earth, so great is his 15 



SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 1 47 

mercy toward them that fear him. As far as the east is 
from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions 
from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the 
Lord pitieth them that fear him. For he knoweth our 
frame ; he remembereth that we are dust. As for man, 20 
his days are as grass ; as a flower of the field, so he flour- 
isheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone ; and 
the place thereof shall knovv^ it no more. But the mercy 
of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting upon them 
that fear him, and his righteousness unto children's chil- 25 
dren, To such as keep his covenant, and to those that 
remember his commandments to do them. The Lord 
hath prepared his throne in the heavens ; and his king- 
dom ruleth over all. Bless the Lord, ye his angels, that 
excel in strength, that do his commandments, hearkening 30 
unto the voice of his word. Bless ye the Lord, all ye his 
hosts ; ye ministers of his, that do his pleasure. Bless 
the Lord, all his works in all places of his dominion ; 
bless the Lord, O my soul 



PROVERBS 8 

The Invitation of Wisdom 

Doth not wisdom cry? and understanding put forth 
her voice ? She standeth in the top of high places, by 
the way in the places of the paths. She crieth at the 
gates, at the entry of the city, at the coming in at 
the doors : Unto you, O men, I call, and my voice is to 
the sons of man. O, ye simple, understand wisdom ; and, 
ye fools, be ye of an understanding heart. Hear ; for I 
will speak of excellent things ; and the opening of my 



148 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

lips shall be right things. For my mouth shall speak 
truth ; and wickedness is an abomination to my lips. 10 
All the words of my mouth are in righteousness ; there 
is nothing frovvard or perverse in them. They are all 
plain to him that understandeth, and right to them 
that find knowledge. Receive my instruction, and not 
silver ; and knowledge rather than choice gold. For 15 
wisdom is better than rubies ; and all the things that may 
be desired are not to be compared to it. 

I wisdom dwell with prudence, and find out knowledge 
of witty inventions. The fear of the Lord is to hate evil ; 
pride, and arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward 20 
mouth, do I hate. Counsel is mine, and sound wisdom ; 
I am understanding ; I have strength. By me kings 
reign, and princes decree justice. By me princes rule, 
and nobles, even all the judges of the earth. I love them 
that love me ; and those that seek me early shall find me. 25 
Riches and honor are with me ; yea, durable riches and 
righteousness. My fruit is better than gold, yea, than 
fine gold ; and my revenue than choice silver. I lead in 
the way of righteousness, in the midst of the paths of 
judgment ; That I may cause those that love me to inherit 30 
substance; and I will fill their treasures. The Lord 
possessed me in the beginning of his way, before his 
works of old. I was set up from everlasting, from the 
beginning, or ever the earth was. When there were no 
depths, I was brought forth ; when there were no foun- 35 
tains abounding with water. Before the mountains were 
settled, before the hills was I brought forth; While as yet 
he had not made the earth, nor the fields, nor the highest 
part of the dust of the world. When he prepared the 
heavens, I was there ; when he set a compass upon the 40 
face of the depth ; When he established the clouds 



SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 149 

above ; when he strengthened the fountains of the deep. 
When he gave to the sea his decree, that the waters should 
not pass his commandment ; when he appointed the 
foundations of the earth. Then I was by him, as one 45 
brought up with him ; and I was daily his delight, rejoic- 
ing always before him. Rejoicing in the habitable part 
of his earth ; and my delights were with the sons of 
men. 

Now therefore hearken unto me, O ye children ; for 50 
blessed are they that keep my ways. Hear instruction, 
and be wise, and refuse it not. Blessed is the man that 
heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the 
posts of my doors. For whoso findeth me findeth life, 
and shall obtain favor of the Lord. But he that sinneth 55 
against me wrongeth his own soul ; all they that hate me 
love death. 



ISAIAH 58 
True and False Relinon 



"ii' 



Cry aloud, spare not, lift up thy voice like a trumpet, 
and show my people their transgression, and the house of 
Jacob their sins. Yet they seek me daily, and delight to 
know my ways, as a nation that did righteousness, and 
forsook not the ordinance of their God ; they ask of me 
the ordinances of justice ; they take delight in approach- 
ing to God, Wherefore have we fasted, say they, and 
thou seest not? wherefore have we afflicted our soul, and 
thou takest no knowledge? Behold, in the day of your 
fast ye find pleasure, and exact all your labors. Behold, 
ye fast for strife and debate, and to smite with the fist of 
wickedness ; ye shall not fast as ye do this day, to make 



150 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

your voice to be heard on high. Is it such a fast that I 
have chosen? a day for a man to afflict his soul? is it to 
bow down his head as a bulrush, and to spread sackcloth 15 
and ashes under him? wilt thou call this a fast, and an 
acceptable day to the Lord? Is not this the fast that I 
have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo 
the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and 
that ye break every yoke ? Is it not to deal thy bread to 20 
the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out 
to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover 
him? and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh? 
Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine 
health shall spring forth speedily, and thy righteousness 25 
shall go before thee ; the glory of the Lord shall be thy 
rearward. Then shalt thou call, and the Lord shall 
answer ; thou shalt cry, and he shall say. Here I am. If 
thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the 
putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity ; And if 30 
thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the 
afflicted soul ; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and 
thy darkness be as the noon day ; And the Lord shall 
guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, 
and make fet thy bones ; and thou shalt be hke a watered 35 
garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not. 
And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste 
places ; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many 
generations ; and thou shalt be called. The repairer of 
the breach. The restorer of paths to dwell in. If thou 40 
turn away thy foot from the sabbath, from doing thy 
pleasure on my holy day ; and call the sabbath a delight, 
the holy of the Lord, honorable ; and shalt honor him, 
not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, 
nor speaking thine own words ; Then shalt thou delight 45 



SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 151 

thyself in the Lord, and I will cause thee to ride upon 
the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the 
heritage of Jacob thy father ; for the mouth of the Lord 
hath spoken it. 



MATTHEW 7 

The Sermo?i on the Mount 

Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judg- 
ment ye judge, ye sliall be judged ; and with what 
measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. 
And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's 
eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own 5 
eye ? Or how wilt thou say to thy brother. Let me pull 
out the mote out of thine eye ; and behold, a beam is in 
thine own eye ? Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam 
out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to 
cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye. Give not that 10 
which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls 
before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and 
turn again and rend you. Ask, and it shall be given you ; 
seek, and ye shall find ; knock, and it shall be opened 
unto you ; For every one that asketh receiveth ; and he 15 
that seeketh findeth ; and to him that knocketh it shall be 
opened. Or what man is there of you, whom if his son 
ask bread, will he give him a stone ? Or if he ask a fish, 
will he give him a serpent? If ye then, being evil, know 
how to give good gifts unto your children, how much 20 
more shall your Father which is in heaven give good 
things to them that ask him? Therefore all things what- 
soever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even 



152 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

SO to them ; for this is the law and the prophets. Enter 
ye in at the strait gate ; for wide is the gate, and broad is 25 
the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be 
which go in thereat ; Because strait is the gate, and 
narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there 
be that find it. Beware of false prophets, which come to 
you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening 30 
wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men 
gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so 
every good tree bringeth forth good fruit ; but a corrupt 
tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring 
forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good 35 
fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is 
hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their 
fruits ye shall know them. Not every one that saith unto 
me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven ; 
but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in ^o 
heaven. Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, 
have we not prophesied in thy name, and in thy name 
have cast out devils, and in thy name done many 
wonderful works? And then I will profess unto them, I 
never knew you ; depart from me, ye that work ini(]uity. 45 
Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and 
doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built 
his house upon a rock ; And the rain descended, and the 
floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that 
house ; and it fell not ; for it was founded upon a rock. 50 
And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and 
doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, 
which built his house upon the sand ; And the rain 
descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and 
beat upon that house ; and it fell ; and great was the fall 55 
of it. And it came to pass, when Jesus had ended these 



SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 15 

sayings, the people were astonished at his doctrine ; For 
he taught them as one having authority, and not as the 
scribes. , 



I CORINTHIANS 13 

Love Beyond all Things 

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, 
and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or 
a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of proph- 
ecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge ; 
and though I have all faith, so that I could remove moun- 5 
tains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I 
bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give 
my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth 
me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind ; charity 
envieth not ; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up ; 10 
doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is 
not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in 
iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth ; Beareth all things, 
believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. 
Charity never faileth ; but whether there be prophecies, 15 
they shall fail ; whether there be tongues, they shall 
cease ; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 
For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But 
when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in 
part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as 20 
a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child ; 
but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 
For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to 
face ; now I know in part, but then shall I know even as 
also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, 25 
these three ; but the greatest of these is charity. 



154 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

REVELATION 6 

The Seven Seals 

And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, 
and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the 
four beasts saying, Come and see. And I saw, and 
behold a white horse ; and he that sat on him had a 
bow ; and a crown was given unto him ; and he went 5 
forth conquering, and to conquer. And when he had 
opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, 
Come and see. And there went out another horse that 
was red ; and power was given to him that sat thereon to 
take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one 10 
another ; and there was given unto him a great sword. 
And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the 
third beast say. Come and see. xA.nd I beheld, and lo a 
black horse ; and he that sat on him had a pair of bal- 
ances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of 15 
the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and 
three measures of barley for a penny ; and see thou hurt 
not the oil and the wine. And when he had opened the 
fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say. 
Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse ; 20 
and his name that sat on him was death, and Hell fol- 
lowed with him. And power was given unto them over 
the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword and with 
hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. 
And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the 25 
altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of 
God, and for the testimony which they held. And they 
cried with a loud voice, saying, How long, O Lord, holy 
and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on 



SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE 1 55 

them that dwell on earth? And white robes were given 30 
unto every one of them ; and it was said unto them, that 
they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow- 
servants also and their brethren, that should be killed as 
they were, should be fulfilled. And I beheld when he 
had opened the sixth seal, and lo, there was a great earth- 35 
quake ; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, 
and the moon became as blood. And the stars of heaven 
fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely 
figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. And the 
heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together ; 40 
and every mountain and island were moved out of their 
places. And then the kings of the earth, and the great 
men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the 
mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, 
hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the 45 
mountains ; and said to the mountains and rocks. Fall 
on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on 
the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb ; For the 
great day of his wrath is come, and who shall be able to 
stand ? 50 



FRANCIS BACON 

(1561-1626) 

ESSAYES 

Of Truth 

What is Truth; said jesting P'date ; And would not 
stay for an Answer. Certainly there be, that delight in 
Giddinesse ; And count it a Bondage, to fix a Beleefe ; 
Affecting Freewill in Thinking, as well as in Acting. And 
though the Sects of Philosophers of that Kinde be gone, 5 
yet there remaine certaine discoursing Wits, which are of 
the same veines, though there be not so much Bloud in 
them, as was in those of the Ancients. But it is not onely 
the Difificultie, and Labour, which Men take in finding 
out of Truth ; Nor againe, that when it is found, it im- 10 
poseth upon mens Thoughts ; that doth bring Lies in 
favour : But a naturall, though corrupt Love, of the Lie it 
selfe. One of the later Schoole of the Grecians, exam- 
ineth the matter, and is at a stand, to thinke what should 
be in it, that men should love / ts ; Where neither they 15 
make for Pleasure, as with Poet~ ; Nor for Advantage, as 
with the Merchant ; but for the Lies sake. But I cannot 
tell : This same Truth, is a Naked, and Open day hght, 
that doth not shew, the Masques, and Mummeries, and 
Triumphs of the world, halfe so Stately, and daintily, as 20 
Candlehghts. Truth may perhaps come to the price of a 
Pearl e, that sheweth best by day : But it will not rise, to 
the price of a Diamond, or Carbuncle, that sheweth best 

156 



BACON 



157 



ill varied lights. A mixture of a Lie doth ever adde 
Pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken 25 
out of Mens Mindes, Vaine Opinions, Flattering Hopes, 
False valuations, Imaginations as one would, and the like ; 
but it would leave the Mindes, of a Number of Men, 
poore shrunken Things ; full of Melancholy, and Indis- 
position, and unpleasing to themselves? One of the 30 
Fathers, in great Severity, called Poesie, Vinum Dce- 
nwnum ; because it filleth the Imagination, and yet it is, 
but with the shadow of a Lie. But it is not the Lie, that 
passeth through the Minde, but the Lie that sinketh in, 
and setleth in it, that doth the hurt, such as we spake of 35 
before. But howsoever these things are thus, in men's 
depraved Judgements, and Affections, yet Truth, which 
onely doth judge it selfe, teacheth, that the Inquirie of 
Truth, which is the Love-making, or Wooing of it ; The 
knowledge of Truth, which is the presence of it ; and 40 
the Beleefe of Ti'uth, which is the Enjoying of it ; is the 
Soveraigne Good of humane Nature. The first Creature 
of God, in the workes of the Dayes, was the Light of the 
Sense ; The last, was the Light of Reason ; And his Sab- 
bath Worke, ever since, is the Illumination of his Spirit. 45 
First he breathed light, upon the Face, or the Matter or 
Chaos ; Then he breathed Light, into the Face of Man ; 
and still he breatheth and inspireth Light, into the Face 
of his Chosen. The Poet, that beautified the Sect, that 
was otherwise inferiour to the rest, saith yet excellently 50 
well : // is a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and to see 
ships tost tipon the Sea : A pleasure to stand in the win- 
dow of a Castle, and to see a Battaile, and the Advent- 
ui^es thereof, beloiu : But no pleasui'e is conparable, to 
the standing, upon the vantage ground of Truth : (A hill 55 
not to be commanded, and where the Ayre is alwaies 



158 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

cleare and serene ;) And to see the Errours, and Wan- 
drings, and Mists, and Tempests, in the vale below : So 
alwaies, that this prospect, be with Pitty, and not.ivith 
Swelling, or Pride. Certainly, it is Heaven upon Earth, 60 
to have a Mans Minde Move in Charitie, Rest in Prov- 
idence, and turne upon the Poles of Truth. 

To passe from Theologicall, and Philosophicall Truth, 
to the Triith of civill Businesse ; It will be acknowledged, 
even by those, that practize it not, that cleare and Round 65 
dealing, is the honour of Mans Nature ; And that Mixture 
of Falshood, is like Allay in Coyne of Gold and Silver ; 
which may make the Metall worke the better, but it em- 
baseth it. For these winding, and crooked courses, are 
the Goings of the Serpent ; which goeth basely upon the 70 
belly, and not upon the Feet. There is no Vice, that 
doth so cover a Man with Shame, as to be found false, 
and perfidious. And therefore Mou?itaig?iy saith prettily, 
when he enquired the reason, why the word of the Lie, 
should be such a Disgrace, and such an Odious Charge ? 75 
Saith he. If it be well weighed. To say that a man lieth, 
is as much to say, as that he is brave towards God, 
a7id a Coward towards Men. For a Lie faces God, and 
shrinkes from Man. Surely the Wickednesse of Falshood, 
and Breach of Faith, cannot possibly be so highly ex- 80 
pressed, as in that it shall be the last Peale, to call the 
Judgements of God, upon the Generations of Men, it 
being foretold, that when Christ commeth, He shall not 
finde Faith upon the Earth. 

Of Revenge 

Revenge is a kinde of Wilde Justice ; which the more 
Mans Nature runs to, the more ought Law to weed it out. 
For as for the first Wrong, it doth but offend the Law ; 



BACON 159 

but the Revenge of that wrong, putteth the Law out of 
Office. Certainly, in taking Revenge, A Man is but even 5 
with his Enemy; But in passing it over, he is Superior: 
For it is a Princes part to Pardon. And Salomon, I am 
sure, saith. It is the glory of a Man to passe by an offence. 
That which is past, is gone, and Irrevocable ; And wise 
Men have Enough to doe, with things present, and to 10 
come : Therefore, they doe but trifle with themselves, 
that labor in past matters. There is no man, doth a 
wrong, for the wrongs sake ; But therby to purchase him- 
selfe, Profit, or Pleasure, or Honour, or the like. Ther- 
fore, why should I be angry with a Man, for loving 15 
himselfe better than mee? And if any Man should doe 
wrong, meerely out of ill nature, why? yet it is but like 
the Thorn, or Bryar, which prick, and scratch, because 
they can doe no other. The most Tolerable Sort of Re- 
venge, is for those wrongs which there is no Law to rem- 20 
edy : But then, let a man take heed, the Revenge be such, 
as there is no law to punish : Else, a Mans Enemy is still 
before hand. And it is two for one. Some, when they 
take Revenge, are Desirous the party should know, 
whence it commeth : This is the more Generous. For 25 
the Delight seemeth to be, not so much in doing the 
Hurt, as in Making the Party repent : But Base and 
Crafty Cowards, are like the Arrow, that flyeth in the 
Darke. Cosmus Duke of Floi'ence, had a Desperate 
Saying, against Perfidious or Neglecting Friends, as if 30 
those wrongs were unpardonable : You shall I'eade (saith 
he) that we are commanded to forgive our Enemies ; But 
you never read, that wee are commanded, to forgive our 
Friends. But yet the Spirit oi Job, was in a better tune ; 
Shall 7vee (saith he) fake good at Gods Hands, and not 35 
be co?ite?it to take evill also ? And so of Friends in a 



l6o FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

proportion. This is certaine ; That a Man that studieth 
Revenge, keepes his owne Wounds greene, which otherwise 
would heale, and doe well. Publique Revenges, are, for 
the most part, Fortunate ; As that for the Death of 40 
Cci'sar; For the Death of Pertinax ; for the Death of 
Henij the Third of France ; And many more. But in 
private Revenges it is not so. Nay rather, Vindicative 
Persons live the Life of Witches ; who as they are Mis- 
chievous, So end they Infortunate. 45 

Of Studies 

Studies serve for Delight, for Ornament, and for 
Ability. Their Chiefe Use for Delight, is in Privatenesse 
and Retiring ; For Ornament, is in Discourse ; And for 
Ability, is in the Judgement and Disposition of Businesse. 
For Expert Men can Execute, and perhaps Judge of 5 
particulars, one by one ; But the generall Counsels, and 
the Plots, and Marshalling of Affaires, come best from 
those that are Learned. To spend too much Time in 
Studies, is Sloth ; To use them too much for Ornament, 
is Affectation ; To make Judgement wholly by their 10 
Rules is the Humour of a SchoUer. They perfect Nature, 
and are perfected by Experience : For Naturall Abih- 
ties, are Hke Naturall Plants, that need Proyning by 
Study : And Studies themselves, doe give forth Directions 
too much at Large, except they be bounded in by ex- 15 
perience. Crafty Men Contemne Studies; Simple Men 
Admire them ; And Wise Men Use them ; P^or they teach 
not their owne Use ; But that is a Wisdome without them, 
and above them, won by Observation. Reade not to 
Contradict, and Confute ; Nor to beleeve and Take for 20 
granted; Nor to Finde Talke and Discourse; But to 



BACON l6l 

weigh and Consider. Some Bookes are to be Tasted, 
Others to be Swallowed, and Some Few to be Chewed and 
Digested : That is, some Bookes are to be read onely in 
Parts ; Others to be read but not Curiously ; And some 25 
Few to be read wholly, and with Diligence and Attention. 
Some Bookes also may be read by Deputy, and Extracts 
made of them by Others : But that would be, onely in the 
lesse important Arguments, and the Meaner Sort of 
Bookes : else distilled Bookes, are hke Common distilled 30 
Waters, Flashy Things. Reading maketh a Full Man ; 
Conference a Ready Man ; And Writing an Exact Man. 
And therefore, If a Man Write little, he had need have a 
Great Memory ; If he Conferre little, he had need have 
a Present Wit ; And if he Reade litle, he had need have 35 
much Cunning, to seeme to know that, he doth not. 
Histories make Men Wise ; Poets Witty ; The Alathe- 
maticks Subtill ; Naturall Philosophy deepe ; Morall 
Grave ; Logick and Rhetorick Able to Contend. Abeunt 
studia in Moi'es. Nay there is no stond or Impediment 40 
in the Wit, but may be wrought out by Fit Studies : 
Like as Diseases of the Body, may have Appropriate 
Exercises. Bowling is good for the Stone and Reines ; 
Shooting for the Lungs and Breast ; Gentle Walking for 
the Stomacke ; Riding for the Head ; And the like. So 45 
if a Mans Wit be Wandring, let him Study the Mathe- 
maticks ; For in Demonstrations, if his Wit be called 
away never so little, he must begin again : If his Wit be 
not Apt to distinguish or find differences, let him Study 
the Schoole-meu ; For they are Cymini sectores. If he be 50 
not Apt to beat over Matters, and to call up one Thing, 
to Prove and Illustrate another, let him Study the 
Lawyers Cases : So every Defect of the Minde, may have 
a Speciall Receit. 



BEN JONSON 

(1 573-1637) 

THE BARRIERS 

Truth 

Upon her head she wears a crown of stars, 
Through which her orient hair waves to her waist, 
By which believing mortals hold her fast, 
And in those golden cords are carried even, 
Till with her breath she blows them up to heaven. 5 

She wears a robe enchased with eagles' eyes, 
To signify her sight in mysteries : 
Upon each shoulder sits a milk-white dove, 
And at her feet do witty serpents move : 
Her spacious arms do reach from east to west, 10 

And you may see her heart shine through her breast. 
Her right hand holds a sun with burning rays, 
Her left a curious bunch of golden keys, 
With which heaven's gates she locketh and displays. 
A crystal mirror hangeth at her breast, 15 

By which men's consciences are searched and drest : 
On her coach-wheels Hypocrisy lies racked ; 
And squint-eyed Slander with Vainglory backed 
Her bright eyes burn to dust, in which shines Fate : 
An angel ushers her triumphant gait, 20 

Whilst with her fingers fans of stars she twists. 
And with them beats back Error, clad in mists. 

162 



JONS ON 163 

Eternal Unity behind her shines, 

That fire and water, earth and air combines. 

Her voice is hke a trumpet lond and shrill, 25 

Which bids all sounds in earth and heaven be still. 



TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 

Doth ask a drink divine : 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 
Not so much honouring thee, 

As giving it a hope, that there 
It could not withered be. 

But thou thereon didst onlv breathe. 



And,sent'st it back to me 
nee when it grows, and 
Not of itself, but thee. 



Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 15 



SONG 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you are going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed : 

Lady, it is to be presumed. 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 



164 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Give me a look, give me a face, 

That makes simplicity a grace ; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me 

Than all the adulteries of art : 

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 



THE SHEPHERDS^ HOLIDAY 

First Nymph 

Thus, thus begin, the yearly rites 
Are due to Pan on these bright nights ; 
His morn now riseth and invites 
To sports, to dances, and delights : 

All envious and profane, away ! 5 

This is the shepherds' holiday. 

Second Nymph 

Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground 

With every flower, yet not confound ; 

The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse. 

Bright day's-eyes, and the lips of cows, 10 

The garden-star, the queen of May, 

The rose, to crown the holiday. 

Third Nymph 

Drop, drop your violets, change your hues 
Now red, now pale, as lovers use. 
And in your death go out as well, 15 

As when you lived unto the smell : 

That from your odour all may say. 

This is the shepherds' holiday. 



JONS ON 165 

AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF 
QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL 

Weep with me, all you that read 

This little story ; 
And know, for whom a tear you shed 

Death's self is sorry. 
'Twas a child that so did thrive 5 

In grace and feature, 
As heaven and nature seemed to strive 

Which owned the creature. 
Years he numbered scarce thirteen 

When Fates turned cruel, 10 

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been 

The stage's jewel ; 
And did act, what now we moan, 

Old men so duly, 
As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one, — 15 

He played so truly. 
So, by error to his fate 

They all consented ; 
But viewing him since, alas, too late 

They have repented ; 20 

And have sought to give new birth 

In baths to steep him ; 
But being so much too good for earth, 

Heaven vows to keep him. 



1 66 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER 
WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE AND WHAT HE HATH 
LEFT US 

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name. 

Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; 

While I confess thy writings to be such, 

As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much. 

'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways ' 5 

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 

For seeliest ignorance on these may light. 

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; 

Or bhnd affection, which doth ne'er advance 

The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; 10 

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 

And think to ruin where it seemed to raise. 

These are, as some infamous bawd . . . 

Should praise a matron ; what could hurt her more? 

But thou art proof against them and, indeed, 15 

Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 

I therefore will begin ; Soul of the age I 

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ! 

My Shakspeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 

Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 20 

A little further to make thee a room : 

Thou art a monument without a tomb, 

And art alive still while thy book doth live. 

And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 

That I not mix thee so my brain excuses, — 25 

I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses ; 

For if I thought my judgment were of years, 

I should commit thee surely with thy peers. 



joivsoiv 167 

And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, 

Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 30 

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, 

From thence to honour thee I would not seek 

For names, but call forth thund'ring ^Eschylus, 

Euripides, and ^Sophocles to us, 

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 35 

To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, 

And shake a stage ; or when thy socks were on. 

Leave thee alone for a comparison 

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 40 

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 

He was not of an age, but for all time ! 

And all the Muses still were in their prime. 

When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 45 

Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! 

Nature herself was proud of his designs. 

And joyed to 'wear the dressing of his lines. 

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. 

As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 50 

The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 

Neat Terence, witty Flatus, now not please ; 

But antiquated and deserted He, 

As they were not of Nature's family. 

Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy Art, 55 

My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part. 

For though the poet's matter nature be. 

His art doth give the fashion ; and that he 

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat 

(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 60 

Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same, 



1 68 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; 

Or for the laurel he may gain to scorn ; . 

For a good poet's made, as well as born. 

And such wert thou ! Look, how the father's face 65 

Lives in his issue, even so the race 

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines 

In his well turned and true filed lines, 

In each of which he seems to shake a lance. 

As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70 

Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 

To see thee in our waters yet appear, 

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 

That so did take Eliza and our James ! 

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 75 

Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 

Shine fortli, thou Star of Poets, and with rage 

Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage. 

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night, 

And despairs day but for thy volume's light. 80 



TO HEAVEN 



Good and great God ! can I not think of Thee, 

But it must straight my melancholy be ? 

Is it interpreted in me disease. 

That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease? 

O be Thou witness, that the reins dost know 

And hearts of all, if I be sad for show ; 

And judge me after, if I dare pretend 

To aught but grace, or aim at other end. 

As Thou art all, so be Thou all to me, 

First, midst, and last, converted One and Three ! 



JONS ON 169 

My faith, my hope, my love ; and, in this state. 

My judge, my witness, and my advocate ! 

Where have I been this while exiled from Thee, 

And whither rapt, now Thou but stoop'st to me ? 

Dwell, eiwell here still ! O, being everywhere, 15 

How can I doubt to find Thee ever here? 

I know my state, both full of shame and scorn, 

Conceived in sin, and unto labour born, 

Standing with fear, and must with horror fall, 

And destined unto judgment, after all. 20 

I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground 

Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound ; — 

Yet dare I not complain or wish for death. 

With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath 

Of discontent ; or that these prayers be 25 

For weariness of life, not love of Thee. 



EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; 
Death ! ere thou hast slain another, 
Learn'd and fair, and good as she, 
Time shall throw a dart at thee. 



DISCOVERIES 

Law of Use 

It is not the passing through these learnings that hurts 
us, but the dwelling and sticking about them. To descend 



I/O FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

to those extreme anxieties and foolish cavils of gramma- 
rians, is able to break a wit in pieces, being a work of 
manifold misery and \'ainness, to be elementai'ii senes. 5 
Yet even letters are as it were the bank of words, and re- 
store themselves to an author, as the pawns of language : 
but talking and eloquence are not the same : to speak, 
and to speak well, are two things. A fool may talk, but 
a wise man speaks, and out of the observation, knowl- 10 
edge, and the use of things, many writers perplex their 
readers and hearers with mere nonsense. Their writings 
need sunshine. Pure and neat language I love, yet plain 
and customary. A barbarous jDhrase has often made me 
out of love with a good sense, and doubtful writing hath 15 
wracked me beyond my patience. The reason why a 
poet is said that he ought to have all knowledges is, 
that he should not be ignorant of the most, especially of 
those he will handle. And indeed, when the attaining of 
them is possible, it were a sluggish and base thing to de- 20 
spair. For frequent imitation of anything becomes a 
habit quickly. If a man should prosecute as much as 
could be said of every thing, his work would find no end. 
Speech is the only benefit man hath to express his 
excellency of mind above other creatures. It is the 25 
instrument of society ; therefore Mercury, who is the 
president of language, is called Deonim hoininumqiie 
interpres. In all speech, words and sense are as the 
body and the soul. The sense is, as the life and soul 
of language, without which all words are dead. Sense is 30 
wrought out of experience, the knowledge of human Ufe 
and actions, or of the liberal arts, which the Greeks called 
'Ei/KL»/<Ao7rat8etav. Words are the people's, yet there is 
a choice of them to be made. For Verboriim delectus 
origo est eloquentice. They are to be chose according to 35 



JONSON 1 7 1 

the persons we make speak, or the things we speak of. 
Some are of the camp, some of the council-board, some 
of the shop, some of the sheep-cote, some of the pulpit, 
some of the bar, (S:c. And herein is seen their elegance 
and propriety, when we use them fitly, and draw them 40 
forth to their just strength and nature, by way of transla- 
tion or metaphor. But in this translation we must only 
serve necessity (yNaui teiiiere nihil transferatur a pru- 
denti), or commodity, which is a kind of necessity : that 
is, when we either absolutely want a word to express by, 45 
and that is necessity ; or when we have not so fit a word, 
and that is commodity ; as when we avoid loss by it, and 
escape obsceneness, and gain in the grace and property 
which helps significance. Metaphors far-fet, hinder to 
be understood ; and affected, lose their grace. Or when 50 
the person fetcheth his translations from a wrong place. 
As if a privy-counsellor should at the table take his meta- 
phor from a dicing-house, or ordinary, or a vintner's 
vault ; or a justice of peace draw his simiHtudes from the 
mathematics, or a divine from a bawdy-house, or taverns ; 55 
or a gentleman of Northamptonshire, Warwickshire, or 
the Midland, should fetch all the illustrations to his 
country neighbours from shipping, and tell them of the 
mainsheet and the boulin. Metaphors are thus many 
times deformed. . . . All attempts that are new in this 60 
kind, are dangerous, and somewhat hard, before they be 
softened with use. A man coins not a new word without 
some peril, and less fruit ; for if it happen to be re- 
ceived, the praise is but moderate ; if refused, the scorn 
is assured. Yet we must adventure ; for things, at first 65 
hard and rough, are by use made tender and gentle. 
It is an honest error that is committed^ following great 
chiefs. 



1/2 FROAI CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Custom is the most certain mistress of language, as the 
pubhc stamp makes the current money. But we must 70 
not be too frequent with the mint, every day coining, nor 
fetch words from the extreme and utmost ages ; since the 
chief virtue of a style is perspicuity, and nothing so vicious 
in it as to need an interpreter. AVords borrowed of an- 
tiquity do lend a kind of majesty to style, and are not 75 
without their dehght sometimes. For they have the 
authority of years, and out of their intermission do win 
themselves a kind of grace-like newness. But the eldest 
of the present, and newness of the past language, is the 
best. For what was the ancient language, which some 80 
men so dote upon, but the ancient custom? yet when 
I name custom, I understand not the vulgar custom ; 
for that were a precept no less dangerous to language 
than life, if we should speak or live after the manners 
of the vulgar : but that I call custom of speech, whicli 85 
is the consent of the learned ; as custom of life, which is 
the consent of the good. 



JOHN MILTON 

(1608-1674) 

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC 

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy, 
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, 
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ^ 
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce ; 
And to our high-raised phantasy present 
That undisturbed song of pure concent. 
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne 
To Him that sits thereon, 
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow, 
And the Cherubic host in thousand quires 
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, 
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms. 
Hymns devout and holy psalms 
Singing everlastingly : 

That we on Earth, with undiscording voice, 
May rightly answer that melodious noise ; 
As once we did, till disproportioned sin 
Jarred against nature's chime, and with harsh din 
Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed 
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
In first obedience, and their state of good. 

173 



174 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

O, may we soon again renew that song, 25 

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long 
To his celestial consort us unite, 
To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light ! 



SONG ON MAY MORNING 

Now the bright morning-star. Day's harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 

Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ! 

Woods and groves are of thy dressing ; 

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 



ON SHAKESPEARE 

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones 

The labour of an age in piled stones? 

Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 

Under a star-ypointing pyramid? 

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. 

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? 

Thou in our wonder and astonishment 

Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, 

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 



MILTON 



175 



Hath from the leaves of thy iinvakied book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
Dost make its marble with too much conceiving 
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 



15 



ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF 
TWENTY-THREE 

How soon hath Time, the subde thief of youth, 
. Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year ! 
My hasting days fly on with full career, 
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 
That I to manhood am arrived so near; 
And inward ripeness doth much less appear. 
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. 

It shall be sdll, in strictest measure even 
To that same lot, however mean or high, 

Towards which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. 
All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 



10 



L'ALLEGRO 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born 
In Stygian cave forlorn 

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy 



176 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Find out some uncouth cell, 5 

Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, 

And the night-raven sings ; 

There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks, 

As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 

But come, thou Goddess fair and free, 

In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, 

And by men heart-easing Mirth ; 

Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 

With two sister Graces more, 15 

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : 

Or whether (as some sager sing) 

The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 

Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 

As he met her once a-Maying, 20 

There, on beds of violets blue. 

And fresh-blown roses washed in dew. 

Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 

So buxom, blythe, and debonair. 

Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee 25 

Jest, and youthful JoUity, 

Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles, 

Nods and Becks and wreathed Smiles, 

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 

And love to live in dimple sleek ; 30 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides. 

And laughter holding both his sides. 

Come, and trip it, as you go, 

On the light ftmtastic toe ; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 

And, if I give thee honour due. 



MILTON 177 

Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 

To hve with her, and Hve with thee. 

In iinreproved pleasures free ; 40 

To hear the lark begin his flight, 

And, singing, startle the dull night. 

From his watch-tower in the skies, 

Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 

Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 

And at my window bid good-morrow. 

Through the sweet-briar or the vine. 

Or the twisted eglantine ; 

While the cock, with lively din 

Scatters the rear of darkness thin ; 50 

And to the stack, or the barn-door, 

Stoutly struts his dames before : 

Oft listening how the hounds and horn 

Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. 

From the side of some hoar hill, 55 

Through the high wood echoing shrill : 

Sometime w^alking, not unseen. 

By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, 

Right against the eastern gate 

Where the great Sun begins his state, 60 

Robed in flames and amber light. 

The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 

While the ploughman, near at hand. 

Whistles o'er the furrowed land. 

And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 

And the mower whets his scythe, 

And every shepherd tells his tale 

Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures. 

Whilst the landskip round it measures : 70 



178 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Russet lawns, and fallows grey, 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 

Mountains on whose barren breast 

The labouring clouds do often rest ; 

Meadows trim, with daisies pied; 75 

Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 

Towers and battlements it sees 

Bosomed high in tufted trees, 

Where perhaps some beauty lies. 

The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80 

Hard by a cottage chimney smokes 

From betwixt two aged oaks. 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met 

Are at their savoury dinner set 

Of herbs and other country messes, _ 85 

W^hich the neat-handed PhiUis dresses ; 

And then in haste her bower she leaves. 

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead. 

To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 

Sometimes, with secure delight. 

The upland hamlets will invite. 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth and many a maid 95 

Dancing in the chequered shade. 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshine holiday. 

Till the livelong daylight fail: 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 

With stories told of many a feat, 

How Faery Mab the junkets eat. 

She was pinched and pulled, she said ; 



MILTON 179 

i' 
And he, by Friar's lantern led, 

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 

His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 

That ten day-labourers could not end ; 

Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, no 

And, stretched out all the chimney's length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 

And crop-full out of doors he flings, 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 

By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men, 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 

In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 

Rain influence, and judge the prize 

Of wit or arms, while both contend 

To win her grace whom all commend. 

There let Hymen oft appear 125 

In saflron robe, with taper clear. 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 

With mask and antique pageantry ; 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 

On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 

Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson's learned sock be on. 

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 

Warble his native wood-notes wild, 

And ever, against eating cares, 135 

/Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 



l8o FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Married to iaimortal verse, 

Such as the meeting soul may pierce, 

In notes with many a winding bout 

Of hnked sweetness long drawn out 140 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 

The melting voice through mazes running, 

Untwisting all the chains that tie 

The hidden soul of harmony ; 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 145 

From golden slumber on a bed 

Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 

Such strains as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto to have quite set free 

His half-regained Eurydice. 150 

These delights if thou canst give, 

Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



IL PENSEROSO 

Hence, vain deluding Joys, 

The brood of Folly without father bred ! 
How Uttle you bested, 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell m some idle brain. 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess. 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, 
Or hkest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 
But, hail ! thou Goddess sage and holy ! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 



MILTON l8l 

Whose saintly visage is too bright 

To hit the sense of human sighj;, 

And therefore to our weaker view 15 

O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; 

Black, but such as in esteem 

Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 

Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 

To set her beauty's praise above 20 

The Sea- Nymphs, and their powers offended 

Yet thou art higher far descended : 

Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore 

To solitary Saturn bore ; 

His daughter she; in Saturn's reign 25 

Such mixture was not held a stain. 

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 

He met her, and in secret shades 

Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 

Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 

Sober, steadfast, and demure. 

All in a robe of darkest grain, 

Flowing with majestic train. 

And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 

Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 

Come ; but keep thy wonted state, 

With even step, and musing gait, 

And looks commercing with the skies, 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40 

There, held in holy passion still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 

With a sad leaden downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast. 

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 45 



1 82 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 

And add to these retired Leisure, 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 50 

But, iirst and chiefest, with thee bring 

Him that yon soars on golden wing, 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 

The Cherub Contemplation ; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 55 

'Less Philomel will deign a song. 

In her sweetest saddest plight. 

Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 

Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 60 

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among 

I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 

And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering moon. 

Riding near her highest noon, 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 

And oft, as if her head she bowed, 

Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 

I hear the far-off curfew sound. 

Over some wide- watered shore, 75 

Swinging slow \vith sullen roar ; 

Or, if the air will not permit, 

Some still removed place will fit, 



MILTON 183 

Where glowing embers through the room 

Teach Hght to counterfeit a gloom, 80 

Far from all resort of mirth, 

Save the cricket on the hearth, 

Or the bellman's drowsy charm , 

To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, 85 

Be seen in some high lonely tower, 

Where I may oft outwatch the bear, 

With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 

The spirit of Plato, to unfold 

What worlds or what vast regions hold go 

The immortal mind that hath forsook 

Her mansion in this fleshy nook ; 

And of those demons that are found 

In fire, air, flood, or underground, 

Whose power hath a true consent 95 

With planet or with element. 

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 

In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 

Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. 

Or the tale of Troy divine, 100 

Or what (though rare) of later age 

Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 

But, O sad Virgin ! that thy power 

Might raise Musseus from his bower ; 

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 

Such notes as, warbled to the string, 

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 

And made Hell grant what love did seek ; 

Or call up him that left half-told 

The story of Cambuscan bold, no 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 



1 84 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And who had Canace to wife, 

That owned the virtuous ring and glass, 

And of the wondrous horse of brass 

On which the Tartar king did ride ; 115 

And if aught else great bards beside 

In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 

Of turneys, and of trophies hung, 

Of forests, and enchantments drear, 

Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. 

Till civil-suited Morn appear, 

Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont 

With the Attic boy to hunt. 

But kerchieft in a comely cloud, 125 

While rocking winds are piping loud, 

Or ushered with a shower still. 

When the gust hath blown his fill. 

Ending on the rustling leaves. 

With minute-drops from off the eaves. 130 

And, when the sun begins to fling 

His flaring beams, me. Goddess, bring 

To arched walks of twilight groves, 

And shadows brown that Sylvan loves. 

Of pine, or monumental oak, 135 

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke 

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt. 

Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 

There, in close covert, by some brook. 

Where no profaner eye may look, 140 

Hide me from day's garish eye. 

While the bee with honeyed thigh. 

That at her flowery work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring. 



MILTON 185 

With such consort as they keep, 145 

Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep. 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings, in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture displayed, 

Softly on my eyelids laid ; 150 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath. 

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 

Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail . 155 

To walk the studious cloister's pale, 

And love the high embowed roof, 

With antique pillars massy-proof, 

And storied windows richly dight, 

Casting a dim rehgious light. 160 

There let the pealing organ blow. 

To the full-voiced quire below. 

In service high and anthems clear. 

As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 

Dissolve me into ecstacies, 165 

And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 

Find out the peaceful hermitage. 

The hairy gown and mossy cell. 

Where I may sit and rightly spell 170 

Of every star that heaven doth shew. 

And every herb that sips the dew. 

Till old experience do attain 

To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give ; 175 

kxiiS. I with thee will choose to live. 



1 86 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my maker, and present 5 

My true account, lest He returning chide, 
'' Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" 
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, '' God doth not need 

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best 10 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state 

Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed. 

And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 



AREOPAGITICA 

Truth 

Truth indeed came once into the world with her 
Divine Master, and was a perfect shape most glorious 
to look on : but when he ascended, and his apostles after 
him were laid asleep, then straight arose a wicked race of 
deceivers, who, as that story goes of the Egyptian Typhon 
with his conspirators, how they dealt with the good Osiris, 
took the virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a thou- 
sand pieces, and scattered them to the four winds. From 
that time ever since, the sad friends of Truth, such as 
durst appear, imitating the careful search that Isis made 
for the mangled body of Osiris, went up and down gath- 



MILTON 187 

ering up limb by limb still as they could find them. We 
have not yet found them all, lords and commons, nor ever 
shall do, till her Master's second coming ; he shall bring 
together every joint and member, and shall mould them 15 
into an immortal feature of loveliness and perfection. 
Suffer not these licensing prohibitions to stand at every 
place of opportunity, forbidding and disturbing them that 
continue seeking, that continue to do our obsequies to 
the torn body of our martyred saint. 20 

A. Nation in its Strength 

Lords and Commons of England ! consider what a 
nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are the gov- 
ernors — a nation not slow and dull, but of quick, ingen- 
ious, and piercing spirit ; acute to invent, subtile and 
sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point 5 
the highest that human capacity can soar to. Therefore 
the studies of learning in her deepest sciences have been 
so ancient and so eminent among us that writers of good 
antiquity and able judgment have been persuaded that 
even the school of Pythagoras and the Persian wisdom 10 ■ 
took beginning from the old philosophy of this island. 
And that wise and civil Roman, JuUus Agricola, who 
governed once here for Caesar, preferred the natural wits 
of Britain before the labored studies of the French. 

Behold now this vast city — a city of refuge, the man- 15 
sion-house of Liberty — encompassed and surrounded 
with his protection ; the shop of war hath not there 
more anvils and hammers working, to fashion out the 
plates and instruments of armed Justice in defence of 
beleaguered Truth, than there be pens and heads there, 20 
sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolv- 



1 88 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ing new notions and ideas wherewith to present, as with 
their homage and their fealty, the approaching reforma- 
tion: others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting to 
the force of reason and convincement. 25 

What could a man require more from a nation so 
pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge? What 
wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil but 
wise and faithful laborers to make a knowing people, 
a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies? We 30 
reckon more than five months yet to harvest ; there 
need not be five weeks, had we but eyes to hft up : 
the fields are white already. Where there is much 
desire to learn, there of necessity will be much argu- 
ing, much writing, many opinions ; for opinion in good 35 
men is but knowledge in the making. Under these fan- 
tastic terrors of sect and schism, we wrong the earnest 
and zealous thirst after knowledge and understanding 
which God hath stirred up in this city. What some 
lament of, we rather should rejoice at, should rather 40 
praise this pious forwardness among men to re-assume 
the ill-deputed care of their religion into their own hands 
again. This is a lively and cheerful presage of our happy 
success and victory. For as in a body when the blood is 
fresh, the spirits pure and vigorous, not only to vital, but to 45 
rational faculties, and those in the acutest and the pert- 
est operations of wit and subtlety, it argues in what good 
plight and constitution the body is ; so when the cheer- 
fulness of the people is so sprightly up as that it has not 
only wherewith to guard well its own freedom and safety, 50 
but to spare, and to bestow upon the solidest and sublim- 
est points of controversy and new invention, it betokens 
us not degenerated, nor drooping to a fatal decay, by 
casting off the old and wrinkled skin of corruption to out- 



MIL TON 1 89 

live these pangs, and wax young again, entering the glo- 55 
rious ways of truth and prosperous virtue, destined to 
become great and honorable in these latter ages. 

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation 
rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shak- 
ing her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle 60 
mewing her mighty youth, and kindhng her undazzled 
eyes at the full midday beam, purging and unsealing her 
long- abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radi- 
ance ; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking 
birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, 65 
amazed at what she means, and in their envious gabble 
would prognosticate a year of sects and schisms. 



AN APOLOGY FOR SMECTYMNUUS 
Early Impressions 

If my name and outward demeanor be not evident 
enough to defend me, I must make trial if the discovery 
of my inmost thoughts can : wherein of two purposes, 
both honest and both sincere, the one perhaps I shall not 
miss ; although I fail to gain belief with others, of being 5 
such as my perpetual thoughts shall here disclose me, 
I may yet fail of success in persuading some to be such 
really themselves, as they cannot believe me to be more 
than what I feign. 

I had my time, readers, as others have, who have good 10 
learning bestowed upon them, to be sent to those places 
where, the opinion was, it might be soonest attained ; 
and as the manner is, was not unstudied in those authors 
which are most commended, whereof some were great 



190 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

orators and historians, whose matter methought I loved 15 
indeed, but as my age then was, so I understood them ; 
others were the smooth elegiac poets, whereof the schools 
are not scarce, whom both for the pleasing sound of their 
numerous writing, which in imitation I found most easy 
and most agreeable to nature's part in me, and for their 20 
matter, which what it is there be few who know not, I 
was so allured to read that no recreation came to me 
better welcome. For that it was then those years with 
me which are excused, though they be least severe, I may 
be saved the labour to remember ye. Whence having ob- 25 
served them to account it the chief glory of their wit, in 
that they were ablest to judge, to praise, and by that 
could esteem themselves worthiest to love those high 
perfections which under one or other name they took to 
celebrate; I thought with myself by every instinct and 30 
presage of nature, which is not wont to be false, that what 
emboldened them to this task might with such diligence 
as they used embolden me ; and that what judgment, wit, 
or elegance was my share, would herein best appear, and 
best value itself, by how much more wisely and with more 35 
love of virtue I should choose (let rude' ears be absent) 
the object of not unlike praises. For albeit these thoughts 
to some will seem virtuous and commendable, to others 
only pardonable, to a third soul perhaps idle ; yet the 
mentioning of them now will end in serious, 40 

Nor blame it, readers, in those years to propose to 
themselves such a reward as the noblest dispositions 
above other things in this life have sometimes preferred ; 
whereof not to be sensible when good and fair in one 
person meet, argues both a gross and shallow judgment 45 
and withal an ungentle and swainish breast. For by the 
firm settling of these persuasions I became, to my best 



MILTON 191 

memory, so much a proficient that if I found those 
authors anywhere speaking unworthy things of themselves, 
or unchaste of those names which before they had ex- 50 
tolled, this effect it wrought with me ; from that time 
forward their art I still applauded, but the men I de- 
plored ; and above them all preferred the two famous 
renowners of Beatrice and Laura, who never write but 
honour of them to whom they devote their verse, display- 55 
ing sublime and pure thoughts, without transgression. 
And long it was not after, when I was confirmed in this 
opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope 
to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to 
be a true poem ; that is, a composition and pattern of 60 
the best and honourablest things ; not presuming to sing 
high praises of heroic men, or famous cities, unless he 
have in himself the experience and the practice of all that 
which is praiseworthy. These reasonings, together with 
a certain niceness of nature^ and honest haughtiness, and 65 
self-esteem either of what I was, or what I might be 
(which let envy call pride), and lastly that modesty, 
whereof, though not in the title page, yet here I may be 
excused to make some beseeming profession ; all these 
uniting the supply of their natural aid together, kept me 70 
still above those low descents of mind beneath which he 
must deject and plunge himself that can agree to saleable 
and unlawful prostitutions. 

Next (for hear me out now, readers), that I may tell 
ye whither my younger feet wandered ; I betook me 75 
among those lofty fables and romances which recount 
in solemn cantos the deeds of knighthood founded by 
our victorious kings and from hence had in renown over 
all Christendom. There I read it in the oath of every 
knight, that he should defend to the expense of his best 80 



192 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

blood, or of his life, if it so befell him, the honour and 
chastity of virgin or matron ; from whence even then I 
learned what a noble virtue chastity sure must be, to the 
defence of which so many worthies, by such a dear ad- 
venture of themselves, had sworn. And if I found in 85 
the story afterward any of them, by word or deed, break- 
ing that oath, I judged it the same fault of the poet as 
that which is attributed to Homer, to have written inde- 
cent things of the gods. Only this my mind gave me, 
that every free and gentle spirit, without that oath, ought 90 
to be born a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt spur 
or the laying of a sword upon his shoulder to stir him 
up, by his counsel and his arms to secure and protect 
the weakness of any attempted chastity. 



SAMUEL BUTLER 

(1612-1680) 

HUDIBRAS 
Accomplishments of Hudibras 

When civil dudgeon first grew high, 
And men fell out they knew not why ; 
When hard words, jealousies, and fears, 
Set folks together by the ears ; '. . . 
When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 5 

With long-eared rout, to battle sounded ; 
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; 
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 
And out he rode a-colonelling. 10 

A wight he was, whose very sight would 
Entitle him mirror of knighthood. 
That never bowed his stubborn knee 
To anything but chivalry. 

Nor put up blow but that which laid 15 

Right worshipful on shoulder-blade. 

We grant, although he had much wit, 

H' was very shy of using it. 

As being loath to wear it out. 

And therefore bore it not about, 20 

o 193 



194 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Unless on holidays or so, 

As men their best apparel do. 

Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek 

As naturally as pigs squeak ; 

That Latin was no more difficile 25 

Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle 

Being rich in both, he never scanted 

His bounty unto such as wanted ; 

But much of either would afford 

To many that had not one word. 30 



He was in logic a great critic, 

Profoundly skilled in analytic. 

He could distinguish and divide 

A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 

On either which he would dispute, 35 

Confute, change hands, and still confute. 

He'd undertake to prove by force 

Of argument a man's no horse ; 

He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl. 

And that a lord may be an owl ; 40 

A calf an alderman, a goose a justice. 

And rooks committee-men and trustees. 

He'd run in debt by disputation, 

And pay with ratiocination. 

All this by syllogism, true 45 

In mood and figure, he would do. 

For rhetoric, he could not ope 

His mouth but out there flew a trope ; * 

And when he happened to brake off 

I' th' middle of his speech, or cough, 50 

H' had hard words ready to show why, 



BUTLER 195 

And tell what rules he did it by ; 

Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 

You'd think he talked like other folk ; 

For all a rhetorician's rules 55 

Teach nothing but to name his tools. 

But when he pleased to show 't, his speech 

In loftiness of sound was rich — 

A Babylonish dialect 

Which learned pedants much affect : 60 

It was a parti-colored dress 

Of patched and piebald languages : 

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 

Like fustian heretofore on satin. 

It had an odd promiscuous tone, 65 

As if h' had talked three parts in one ; 

Which made some think when he did gabble 

H' had heard three laborers of Babel, 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 

A leash of languages at once. 70 

This he as volubly would vent 

As if his stock would ne'er be spent ; 

And truly to support that charge, 

He had supplies as vast and large ; 

For he could coin or counterfeit 75 

New words, with little or no wit — 

Words so debased and hard, no stone 

Was hard enough to touch them on ; 

And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em. 

The ignorant for current took 'em, 80 

That had the orator who once 

Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones 

When he harangued but known his phrase, 

He would have used no other ways. 



Iq6 from CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

In mathematics he was greater 85 

Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater ; 

For he, by geometric scale, 

Could take the size of pots of ale ; 

Resolve by sines and tangents, straight. 

If bread or butter wanted weight ; 90 

And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 

The clock does strike, by algebra. 

Besides he was a shrewd philosopher 

And had read every text and gloss over — 

Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath 95 

He understood b' implicit faith ; 

Whatever sceptic could inquire for, 

For every wliv he had a wherefore ; 

Knew more than forty of them do, 

As far as words and terms could go ; 100 

x\ll which he understood by rote. 

And as occasion served would quote : 

No matter whether right or wrong, 

They might be either said or sung. 

His notions fitted things so well 105 

That which was which he could not tell. 

But oftentimes mistook the one 

For th' other, as great clerks have done. 

He could reduce all things to acts, 

And knew their natures by abstracts ; no 

Where entity and quiddity. 

The ghosts of defunct bodies fly ; 

Where truth in person does appear, 

Lil^e words congealed in northern air. 

He knew what's what, and that's as high 115 

As metaphysic wit can fly. 

In school divinity as able 



BUTLER 



197 



As he that hight irrefragable ; 

A second Thomas, or, at once 

To name them all, another Dunce ; 120 

Profound in all the nominal 

And real ways beyond them all ; 

For he a rope of sand could twist 

As tough as learned Sorbonist, 

And weave fine cobwebs fit for skull 125 

That's empty when the moon is full — 

Such as take lodgings in a head 

That's to be let unfurnished. 

Religion of Hudibras 

For his religion, it was fit 

To match his learning and his wit : 

'Twas Presbyterian true blue ; 

For he was of that stubborn crew 

Of errant saints, whom all men grant 5 

To be the true church militant — 

Such as do build their faith upon 

The holy text of pike and gun ; 

Decide all controversies by 

Infallible artillery ; 10 

And prove their doctrine orthodox 

By apostolic blows and knocks ; 

Call fire and sword and desolation 

A godly thorough reformation, 

Which always must be carried on, 15 

And still be doing, never done ; 

As if religion were intended 

For nothing else but to be mended — 

A sect whose chief devotion lies 



198 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

In odd perverse antipathies ; 20 

In falling out with that or this, 

And finding somewhat still amiss ', 

More peevish, cross, and splenetic 

Than dog distract or monkey sick ; 

That with more care keep holiday 25 

The wrong, than others the right, way ; 

Compomid for sins they are inclined to 

By damning those they have no mind to. 

Still so perverse and opposite, 

As if they worshipped God for spite ; 30 

The self-same thing they will abhor 

One way, and long another for : 

Free-will they one way disavow, 

Another nothing else allow ; 

All piety consists therein 35 

In them, in other men all sin ; 

Rather than fail, they will defy 

That which they love most tenderly ; 

Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage 

Their best and dearest friend — plum porridge; 40 

Fat pig and goose itself oppose, 

And blaspheme custard through the nose. 

Th' apostles of this fierce religion, 

Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon. 

To whom our knight, by fast instinct 45 

Of wit and temper, was so linked, 

As if hypocrisy and nonsense 

Had got th' advowson of his conscience. 



JOHN BUNYAN 
(1628-1688) 

PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 

The Golden City 

Now I saw in my dream that by this time the pilgrims 
were got over the Enchanted Ground; and^ entering 
into the country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet 
and pleasant, the way lying directly through it, they 
solaced themselves there for a season. Yea, here they 5 
heard continually the singing of birds, and saw every 
day the flowers appear in the earth, and heard the voice 
of the turtle in the land. In this country the sun shin- 
eth night and day : wherefore it was beyond the Valley 
of the Shadow of Death, and also out of the reach of the 10 
Giant Despair; neither could they from this place so 
much as see Doubting Castle. 

Here they were within sight of the city they were going 
to; also, here met them some of the inhabitants thereof; 
for in this land the shining ones commonly walked, be- 15 
cause it was upon the borders of Heaven. In this land, 
also, the contract between the bride and bridegroom was 
renewed. Yea, here as the bridegroom rejoiceth over 
the bride, so did their God rejoice over them. Here 
they had no want of corn and wine; for in this place they 20 
■met abundance of what they had sought for in all their 
pilgrimage. Here they heard voices from out of the 

199 



200 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

city, loud voices, saying, "Say ye to the daughter of 
Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh ! Behold, his re- 
ward is with him ! " Here all the inhabitants of the 25 
country called them " the holy people, the redeemed of 
the Lord, sought out," etc. 

Now, as they walked in this land, they had more re- 
joicing than in parts more remote from the kingdom to 
which they were bound. And drawing nearer to the city 30 
yet, they had a more perfect view thereof. It was built 
of pearls and precious stones; also the streets thereof 
were paved with gold; so that by reason of the natural 
glory of the city, and the reflection of the sunbeams 
upon it, Christian with desire fell sick. Hopeful, also, 35 
had a fit or two of the same disease; wherefore here 
they lay by it awhile, crying out because of their pangs, 
" If you see my Beloved, tell him that I am sick of love." 

But being a little strengthened, and better able to bear 
their sickness, they walked on their way, and came yet 40 
nearer and nearer, where were orchards, vineyards, and 
gardens, and their gates opened into the highway. Now, 
as they came up to these places, behold the gardener 
stood in the way, to whom the pigrims said, "Whose 
goodly vineyards and gardens are these?" He an- 45 
swered, "They are the King's, and are planted here for 
his own delight, and also for the solace of pilgrims." 
So the gardener had them into the vineyards, and had 
them refresh themselves with the dainties. He also 
showed them there the King's walks and arbors, where 50 
he delighted to be. And here they tarried and slept. 

Now I beheld in my dream that they talked more in 
their sleep at this time than they ever did in all their 
journey; and being in a muse thereabout, the gardener 
said even to me, "Wherefore musest thou at the matter? 55 



BUNYAN 20I 

It is the nature of the fruit of the grapes of these vine- 
yards to go down so sweetly as to cause the lips of them 
that are asleep to speak." 

So I saw that when they awoke they addressed them- 
selves to go up to the city. But, as I said, the reflection 60 
of the sun upon the city — for the city was pure gold — 
was so extremely glorious that they could not as yet with 
open face behold it, but through an instrument made for 
that purpose. So I saw that, as they went on, there met 
them two men in raiment that shone like gold; also 65 
their faces shone as the light. 

These men asked the pilgrims whence they came? and 
they told them. They also asked them where they had 
lodged, what dangers and difficulties, what comforts and 
pleasures, they had met with in the way? and they told 70 
them. Then said the men that had met them, "You 
have but two difficulties more to meet with, and then 
you are in the city." 

Christian, then, and his companion asked the men to 
go along with them ; so they told them that they would. 75 
"But," said they, "you must obtain it by your own 
faith." So I saw in my dream that they went on together 
till they came in sight of the gate. 

Now I further saw that betwixt them and the gate was 
a river, but there was no bridge to go over, and the river 80 
was very deep. At the sight, therefore, of this river the 
pilgrims were much stunned ; but the men that went with 
them said, "You must go through, or you cannot come 
at the gate." 

The pilgrims then began to inquire if there was no 85 
other way to the gate? To which they answered, "Yes; 
but there hath not any, save two, to wit, Enoch and Eli- 
jah, been permitted to tread that path since the founda- 



202 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

tion of the world, nor shall, until the last trumpet shall 
sound. Then the pilgrims — especially Christian — 90 
began to despond in their minds, and looked this way 
and that; but no way could be found by them by which 
they could escape the river. Then they asked the men 
if the waters were all of a depth? They said, "No"; 
yet they could not help them in that case: "for," said 95 
they, "you shall find it deeper or shallower, as you be- 
lieve in the King of the place." 

They then addressed themselves to the water, and en- 
tering, Christian began to sink, and, crying out to his 
good friend Hopeful, he said, " I sink in deep waters, 100 
the billows go over my head, all the waters go over me; 
Selah." Then said the other, "Be of good cheer, my 
brother; I feel the bottom, and it is good." Then said 
Christian, "Ah! my friend, the sorrows of death have 
compassed me about. I shall not see the land that flows 105 
with milk and honey." And with that a great darkness 
and horror fell upon Christian, so that he could not see 
before him. Also he, in a great measure, lost his 
senses, so that he could neither remember nor orderly 
talk of any of those sweet refreshments that he had met no 
with in the way of his pilgrimage. But all the words 
that he spake still tended to discover that he had horror 
of mind and heart-fears that he should die in that river 
and never obtain entrance in at the gate. Here, also, 
as they that stood by perceived, he was much in the 115 
troublesome thoughts of the sins that he had committed, 
both since and before he began as a pilgrim. It was also 
perceived that he was troubled with apparitions of hob- 
goblins and evil spirits; for ever and anon he would in- 
timate so much by words. Hopeful, therefore, had 120 
much ado to keep his brother's head above water. Yea, 



BUN VAN 203 

he would sometimes be quite gone down, and then, ere 
a while, he wouki rise up. again half dead. Hopeful did 
also endeavor to comfort him, saying, "Brother, I see 
the gate, and men standing by to receive us." But Chris- 125 
tian would answer, " It is you, it is you that they wait 
for. You have been hopeful ever since I knew you." 
"And so have you," he said to Christian. "Ah, 
brother," said he, "surely, if I was right. He would now 
rise to help me; but for my sins He hath brought me 130 
into the snare and left me." Then said Hopeful, "My 
brother, you have quite forgot the text, where it is said 
of the wicked, 'There are no bands in their death, but 
their strength is firm; they are not troubled as other 
men, neither are they plagued like other men.' These 135 
troubles and distresses that you go through in these 
waters are no sign that God hath forsaken you, but are 
sent to try you whether you will call to mind that which 
heretofore you have received of his goodness and live 
upon him in your distresses." 140 

Then I saw in my dream that Christian was in a muse 
a while. To whom, also. Hopeful added these words : 
"Be of good cheer; Jesus Christ maketh thee whole." 
And with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, 
"Oh! I see him again, and he tells, me, 'When thou 145 
passest through the waters, I will be with thee, and 
through the rivers they shall not overflow thee.' " Then 
they both took courage, and the enemy was after that as 
still as a stone, until they were gone over. Christian, 
therefore, presently found ground to stand upon, and so 150 
it followed that the rest of the river was but shallow. 
Thus they got over. 

Now, upon the bank of the river, on the other side, 
they saw the two Shining Men again, who there waited 



204 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

for them. Wherefore, being come out of the river, they 155 
sakited them, saying, "We are ministering spirits, sent 
forth to minister to those that shall be heirs of salva- 
tion." Thus they went along towards the gate. 

Now you must note that the city stood upon a mighty 
hill; but the pilgrims went up that hill with ease, be- 160 
cause they had these two men to lead them up by the 
arms. They had likewise left their mortal garments 
behind them in the river; for though they went in with 
them, they came out without them. They therefore 
went up here with much agility and speed, though the 165 
foundation upon which the city was framed was higher 
than the clouds. They therefore went up through the 
region of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being 
comforted because they safely got over the river and 
had such glorious companions to attend them. 170 

The talk that they had with the Shining Ones was 
about the glory of the place, who told them that the 
beauty and glory of it was inexpressible. "There," said 
they, " is Mount Sion, the heavenly Jerusalem, the innu- 
merable company of angels, and the spirits of just men 175 
made perfect. You are going now," said they, "to the 
paradise of God, wherein you shall see the tree of life, 
and eat of the never-fading fruits thereof; and when 
you come there, you shall have white robes given you, 
and your walk and talk shall be everyday with the King, iSo 
even all the days of eternity. There you shall not see 
again such things as you saw when you were in the lower 
region upon the earth — - to wit, sorrow, sickness, afflic- 
tion, and death ; for the former things are passed away. 
You are now going to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, 185 
and to the prophets, men that God hath taken away 
from the evil to come, and that are now 'resting upon 



BUNYAN 205 

their beds, each one walking in his uprightness.' " The 
men then asked, "What must we do in the holy place?" 
To whom it was answered, "You must there receive the 190 
comforts of all your toil, and have joy for all your sor- 
row; you must reap what you have sown, even the fruit 
of all your prayers, and tears, and sufferings for the King 
by the way. In that place you must wear crowns of gold, 
and enjoy the perpetual sight and vision of the Holy 195 
One; for there you shall see him as he is. There also 
you shall serve him continually with praise, with shout- 
ing and thanksgiving, whom you desired to serve in the 
world, though with much difficulty, because of the in- 
firmity of your flesh. There your eyes shall be delighted 200 
with seeing, and your ears with hearing the pleasant 
voice of the Mighty One. There you shall enjoy your 
friends a^ain that are gone thither before you; and there 
you shall with joy receive even every one that followeth 
into the holy place after you. There also you shall be 205 
clothed with glory and majesty, and put into an equipage 
fit to ride out with the King of Glory. When he shall 
come with sound of trumpet in the clouds, as upon the 
wings of the wind, you shall come with him; and when 
he shall sit upon the throne of judgment, you shall sit 210 
by him; yea, and when he shall pass sentence upon all 
the workers of iniquity, let them be angels or men, you 
also shall have a voice in that judgment, because they 
were his and your enemies. Also, when he shall again 
return to the city, you shall go, too, with sound of trum-215 
pet, and be ever with him." 

Now, while they were thus drawing towards the gate, 
behold, a company of the heavenly host came out to 
meet them; to whom it was said by the other two Shin- 
ing Ones, "These are the men that have loved our Lord 220 



206 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

when they were in the world, and that have left all for 
his holy name; and he hath sent us to fetch them, and 
we have brought them thus far on their desired journey 
that they may go in, and look their Redeemer in the 
face with joy." Then the heavenly host gave a great 225 
shout, saying, "Blessed are they that are called to the 
marriage supper of the Lamb." There came out also, 
at this time, to meet them several of the King's trum- 
peters, clothed in white and shining raiment, who^ with 
melodious noises and loud, made even the heavens to 230 
echo with their sound. These trumpeters saluted Chris- 
tian and his fellow with ten thousand welcomes from the 
world; and this they did with shouting and sound of 
trumpet. 

This done, they compassed them round on every side. 235 
Some went before, some behind, and some on the right 
hand, some on the left (as it were, to guard them 
through the upper regions), continually sounding as they 
went, with melodious noise, in notes on high : so that 
the very sight was to them that could behold it as if 240 
heaven itself was come down to meet them. Thus, 
therefore, they walked on together; and, as they walked, 
ever and anon these trumpeters, even with joyful sound, 
would, by mixing their music with looks and gestures, 
still signify to Christian and his brother how welcome 245 
they were into their company, and with what gladness 
they came to meet them. And now were these two men, 
as it were, in heaven before they came at it, being swal- 
lowed up with the sight of angels, and with hearing of 
their melodious notes. Here, also, they had the city 250 
itself in view, and thought they heard all the bells therein 
to ring to welcome them thereto. But, above all, the 
warm and joyful thoughts that they had about their own- 



BUNYAN 207 

dwelling there with such company, and that tor ever and 
ever — oh, by what tongue or pen can their glorious joy 255 
be expressed ! Thus they came up to the gate. 

Now, when they were come up to the gate, there was 
written over it in letters of gold, '' Blessed are they that 
do His commandments, that they may have right to the 
tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the 260 
city." 

Then I saw in my dream that the two Shining Men 
bade them call at the gate. The which when they did, 
some from above looked over the gate — to wit, Enoch, 
Moses, and Elijah, etc. — to whom it was said, "These 265 
pilgrims are come from the City of Destruction for the 
love that they bear to the King of this place "; and then 
the pilgrims gave in unto them each man his certificate 
which they had received in the beginning. Those, there- 
fore, were carried in to the King, who, when he had 270 
read them, said, "Where are the men?" To whom it 
was answered, "They are standing without the gate." 
The King then commanded to open the gate, " that the 
righteous nation," said he, "that keepeth truth may 
enter in." 275 

Now I saw in my dream that these two men went in 
at the gate ; and, lo ! as they entered they were transfig- 
ured, and they had raiment put on that shone like gold. 
There were also that met them with harps and crowns, 
and gave them to them — the harps to praise withal, and 280 
the crowns in token of honor. Then I heard in my 
dream that all the bells in the city rang again for joy, 
and that it was said unto them, "Enter ye into the joy 
of your Lord." I also heard the men themselves that 
they sang v/ith a loud voice, saying, "Blessing, and 285 
honor, and glory, and power be unto him that sitteth 



208 FROM CHAUCER TO ARAWLD 

upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, for ever and 
ever." 

Now, just as the gates were opened to let in the men, 
I looked in after them, and behold, the city shone like 290 
the sun; the streets also were paved with gold, and in 
them walked many men with crowns on their heads, 
palms in their hands, and golden harps, to sing praises 
withal. 

There were also of them that had wings, and they an- 295 
swered one another without intermission, saying, " Holy, 
holy, holy is the Lord ! " And after that, they shut up 
the gates; which, when I had seen, I wished myself 
among them. . . . 

So I awoke; and behold, it was a dream. 300 



JOHN DRYDEN 

(1631-1700) 

AN ESSAY ON DRAMATIC POETRY 
Shakespeare and Jons on 

Shakespeare was the man who of all modern, and 
perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most com- 
prehensive soul. All the images of nature were still 
present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but 
luckily : when he describes anything, you more than see 
it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have 
wanted learning, give him the greater commendation : 
he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles 
of books to read nature; he looked inwards, and found 
her there. I cannot say he is everywhere alike; were 
he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the 
greatest of mankind. He is many times fiat, insipid; 
his comic wit degenerating into clenches, his serious 
swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when 
some great occasion is presented to him : no man can 
say, he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not 
then raise himself as high above the rest of poets. 

Quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi. 

The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eton say, 
that there was no subject of which any poet ever writ, 
but he would produce it much better done in Shake- 
p 209 



2IO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

speare; and however others are now generally preferred 
before him, yet the age wherein he lived, which had 
contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Jonson, never 
equalled them to him in their esteem: and in the last 25 
king's court, when Ben's reputation was at highest. Sir 
John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the 
courtiers, set our Shakespeare far above him. 

Beaumont and Fletcher, of whom I am next to speak, 
had, with the advantages of Shakespeare's wit, which 30 
was their precedent, great natural gifts improved by 
study; Beaumont especially being so accurate a judge of 
plays that Ben Jonson, while he lived, submitted all his 
writings to his censure, and 'tis thought, used his judg- 
ment in correcting, if not contriving, all his plots. 35 
What value he had for him, appears by the verses he writ 
to him; and therefore I need speak no farther of it. 
The first play that brought Fletcher and him in esteem, 
was their "Philaster; " for before that, they had written 
two or three very unsuccessfully: as the like is reported 40 
of Ben Jonson before he writ *' Every Man in his Hu- 
mour." Their plots were generally more regular than 
Shakespeare's, especially those which were made before 
Beaumont's death; and they understood and imitated 
the conversation of gentlemen much better; whose wild 45 
debaucheries, and quickness of wit in repartees, no poet 
before them could paint as they have done. Humour, 
which Ben Jonson derived from particular persons, they 
made it not their business to describe : they represented 
all the passions very lively, but above all, love. I am 50 
apt to believe the English language in them arrived to its 
highest perfection; what words have since been taken 
in, are rather superfluous than ornamental. Their plays 
are now the most pleasant and frequent entertainments 



DRYDEN 211 

of the stage; two of theirs being acted through the year 55 
for one of Shakespeare's or Jonson's: the reason is, 
because there is a certain gaiety in their comedies, and 
pathos in their more serious plays, which suits generally 
with all men's humours. Shakespeare's language is like- 
wise a little obsolete, and Ben Jonson's wit comes short 60 
of theirs. 

As for Jonson, to whose character I am now arrived, 
if we look upon him while he was himself (for his last 
plays were but his dotages), I think him the most learned 
and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He 65 
was a-most severe judge of himself, as well as others. 
One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was 
frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or 
alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some 
measure, we had before him; but something of art was 70 
wanting to the drama till he came. He managed his 
strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. 
You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, 
or endeavouring to move the passions; his genius was 
too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially 75 
when he knew he came after those who had performed 
both to such an height. Humour was his proper sphere; 
and in that he delighted most to represent mechanic 
people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, 
both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from 80 
them : there is scarce a poet or historian among the 
Roman authors of those times, whom he has not trans- 
lated in "Sej anus" and "Catiline." But he has done 
his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to 
be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a mon- 85 
arch; and what would be theft in other poets, is only 
victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so 



212 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

represents old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and 
customs, that if one of their poets,had written either of 
his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If 90 
there was any fault in his language, it was that he weaved 
it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies espe- 
cially: perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize 
our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost 
as much Latin as he found them : wherein, though he 95 
learnedly followed their language, he did not enough 
comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him 
with Shakespeare, I must acknowledge him the more 
correct poet, but Shakespeare the greater wit. Sha4s:e- 
speare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets; joo 
jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing: 
I admire him, but I love Shakespeare. To conclude of 
him; as he has given us the most correct plays, so in the 
precepts which he has laid down in his "Discoveries," 
we have as many and profitable rules for perfecting the 105 
stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us. 



TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED 
YOUNG LADY, MRS. ANNE KILLIGREVV, EXCEL- 
LENT IN THE TWO SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND 

PAINTING ^ ^ ^^^ 

An Ode, 1686 

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies 
Made in the last promotion of the blest ; 

Whose palms, new plucked from Paradise, 

In spreading branches more sublimely rise. 

Rich with immortal green above the rest : 5 

Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, 



DRY DEN 



213 



rhoii roll'st above us in thy wandering race, 

Or in procession fixed and regular 
Moved with the heavens' majestic pace, 

Or called to more superior bliss, 
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss : 
Whatever happy region be thy place, 
Cease thy celestial song a little space ; 
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, 
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. 
Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, 

In no ignoble verse. 

But such as thy own voice did practise here. 

When thy first fruits of poesy were given, 

To make thyself a welcome inmate there ; 

While yet a young probationer, 

And candidate of Heaven. 



15 



If by traduction came thy mind, 

Our wonder is the less to find 
A soul so charming from a stock so good ; 25 

Thy father was transfused into thy blood : 
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, 
(An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.) 

But if thy pre-existing soul 
Was formed at first with myriads more, jo 

It did through all the mighty poets roll 
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore. 
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 
If so, then cease thy fight, O heaven-born mind ! 
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore : 35 

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find 

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind : 
Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind. 



214 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

May we presume to say that, at thy birth, 
New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth? 40 
For sure the milder planets did combine 
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, 
And even the most malicious were in trine. 
Thy brother-angels at thy birth 

Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high, 45 

That all the people of the sky 
Might know a poetess was born on earth ; 
And then, if ever, mortal ears 
Had heard the music of the spheres. 
And if no clustering swarm of bees 50 

On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, 
'Twas that such vulgar miracles 
Heaven had not leisure to renew : 
For all the blest fraternity of love 54 

Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. 

O gracious God ! how far have we 
Profaned thy heavenly gift of Poesy ! 
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 
Debased to each obscene and impious use. 
Whose harmony was first ordained above, 60 

For tongues of angels and for hymns of love ! 
Oh wretched we ! why were we hurried down 
This lubric and adulterate age, 

(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,) 
To increase the steaming ordures of the stage? 65 

What can we say to excuse our second fall? 

Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all : 

Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled, 

Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled; 
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. 70 



DRY DEN 



215 



Art she had none, yet wanted none, 
For Nature did that want supply : 
So rich in treasures of her own, 
She might our boasted stores defy : 
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn 75 

That it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born. 
Her morals too were in her bosom bred, 

By great examples daily fed. 
What in the best of books, her father's life, she read 
And to be read herself she need not fear ; 80 

Each test and every light her Muse will bear, 
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. 
Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest). 
Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast ; 
Light as the vapours of a morning dream, 85 

So cold herself, while she such warmth exprest, 
'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream. 

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, 
One would have thought she should have been content 
To manage well that mighty government ; 90 

But what can young ambitious souls confine ? 

To the next realm she stretched her sway, 

For Painture near adjoining lay, 
A plenteous province and alluring prey. 
A chamber of Dependences was framed, 95 

(As conquerors will never want pretence, 

When armed, to justify the offence). 
And the whole fief in right of Poetry she claimed. 

The country open lay without defence. 
For poets frequent inroads there had made, 100 

And perfectly could represent 

The shape, the face, with every hneament, 



2l6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And all the large domains which the dumb Sister swayed ; 

All bowed beneath her government, 

Received in triumph wheresoe'er she went. 105 

Her pencil drew whate'er her soul designed, 
And oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind. 

The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks 

And fruitful plains and barren rocks ; 

Of shallow brooks that flowed so clear, no 

The bottom did the top appear ; 

Of deeper too and ampler floods 

Which, as in mirrors, showed the woods ; 

Of lofty trees, with sacred shades 

And perspectives of pleasant glades, 115 

Where nymphs of brightest form appear, 

And shaggy satyrs standing near. 

Which them at once admire and fear. 

The ruins too of some majestic piece. 

Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, 120 

Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie. 

And, though defaced, the wonder of the eye ; 

What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, 

Her forming hand gave feature to the name. 

So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, 125 

But when the peopled ark the whole creation bore. 

The scene then changed ; with bold erected look 
Our martial King the sight with reverence strook: 
For, not content to express his outward part, 
Her hand called out the image of his heart : 130 

His ^yarlike mind, his soul devoid of fear. 
His high-designing thoughts were figured there. 
As when by magic ghosts are made appear. 

Our phoenix queen was portrayed too so bright. 



DRY DEN 



217 



Beauty alone could beauty take so right : 135 

Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, 

Were all observed, as well as heavenly face. 

With such a peerless majesty she stands, 

As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands 

Before a train of heroines was seen, 140 

In beauty foremost, as in rank the queen. 

Thus nothing to her genius was denied, 
But hke a ball of fire, the farther thrown. 
Still with a greater blaze she shone. 

And her bright soul broke out on every side. 145 

What next she had designed, Heaven only knows : 
To such immoderate growth her conquest rose 
That Fate alone its progress could oppose. 

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, 

The well-proportioned shape and beauteous face,- 150 

Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes ; 

In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. 

Not wit nor piety could Fate prevent ; 

Nor was the cruel Destiny content 

To finish all the murder at a blow, 155 

To sweep at once her life and beauty too; 
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride 

To work more mischievously slow. 
And plundered first, and then destroyed. 
O double sacrilege on things divine, 160 

To rob the relic, and deface the shrine ! 

But thus Orinda died : 
Heaven by the same disease did both translate ; 
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate. 
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas 165 

His waving streamers to the wind displays, 



2l8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And vows for his return with vain devotion pays. 
Ah, generous youth ! that wish forbear, 
The winds too soon will waft thee here ! 
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come ; 170 

Alas ! thou knowst not, thou art wrecked at home. 
No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, 
Thou hast already had her last embrace. 
But look aloft, and if thou kenst from far, 
Among the Pleiads, a new-kindled star, 775 

If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 
'Tis she that shines in that propitious light. 

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound. 

To raise the nations under ground ; 

When in the Valley of Jehosophat 180 

The judging God shall close the book of Fate, 

•And there the- last assizes keep 

For those who wake and those who sleep \ 

When rattling bones together fly 

From the four corners of the sky ; 185 

When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, 
Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead ; 
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound. 
And foremost from the tomb shall bound, 
For they are covered with the lightest ground ; 190 

And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing. 
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. 
There thou, sweet saint, before the quire shalt go. 
As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show, 
The way which tho.u so well hast learned below. 195 



DRY DEN 



219 



ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC 

A Song in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day, idgy 

'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son : 
Aloft in awful state 
The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne ; c 

His valiant peers were placed around ; 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound : 

(So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
The lovely Thais, by his side, 

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride, 10 

In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
None but the brave. 
None but the brave, 
None but the brave deserves the fair. . 15 

Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre : 

The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 20 

The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above, 
(Such is the power of mighty love.) 
A dragon's fiery form behed the God : 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 25 

When he to fair Olympia pressed ; 
And while he sought her snowy breast, 



220 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Then round her slender waist he curled, 
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, 30 

A present deity, they shout around ; 
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound : 

With ravished ears 

The monarch hears, 

Assumes the God, 35 

Affects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. 

The jolly God in triumph comes ; 40 

Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; 
Flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face : 
Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. 

Bacchus, ever fair and young, 45 

Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; 
Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure, 50 

Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 
Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
The master saw the madness rise, 55 

His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And while he heaven and earth defied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 



DRYDEN 221 

He chose a mournful Muse, 
Soft pity to infuse ; 60 

He sung Darius great and good, 
By too severe a fate, 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 

Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ; 65 

Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyous victor sate, 70 

Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below : 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole. 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled to see 75 

That love was in the next degree ; 
'Twas but a kindred sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 

Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 80 

War, he sung, is toil and trouble : 
Honour but an empty bubble; 

Never ending, still beginning, 
Fighting still, and still destroying : 

If the world be worth thy winning, 85 

Think, O think it worth enjoying : 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 

Take the good the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 90 



222 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 95 

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
Break his bands of sleep asunder, 100 

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head ; 
As awaked from the dead, 
And, amazed, he stares around. 105 

* Revenge, revenge ! ' Timotheus cries ; 
' See the Furies arise ; 
See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! no 

Behold a ghastly band, 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And unburied remain 

Inglorious on the plain : 115 

Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes. 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.' 120 

The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 



DRYDEN 223 

Thais led the way, 
To Hght him to his prey, 
And, hke another Helen, fired another Troy. 125 

Thus long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 

And sounding lyre, 130 

Could sw^ell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store, 

Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 135 

And added length to solemn sounds. 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 

Or both divide the crown : 
He raised a mortal to the skies j 140 

She drew an angel down. 



LINES PRINTED UNDER THE ENGRAVED POR- 
TRAIT OF MILTON 

(/// Tonson^s Folio Edition of the ^Paradise Lost,^ 1688) 

Three poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed, 
The next in majesty, in both the last. 
The force of Nature could no* farther go; 
To make a third she joined the former two. 



DANIEL DEFOE 

(1661-1731) 

ROBINSON CRUSOE 
The Shipw7-eck 

Being in the latitude of twelve degrees eighteen min- 
utes, a second storm came upon us, which carried us 
away with the same impetuosity westward, and drove us 
so out of the very way of all human commerce, that had 
all our lives been saved, as to the sea, we were rather in 5 
danger of being devoured by savages than ever returning 
to our own country. 

In this distress, the wind still blowing very hard, one 
of our men early in the morning cried out, " Land ! " 
We had no sooner run out of the cabin to look out, in 10 
hopes of seeing whereabouts in the world we were, but 
the ship struck upon sand, and, in a moment, her motion 
being so stopped, the sea broke over her in such a man- 
ner, that we expected we should all have perished imme- 
diately. We were immediately driven into our close 15 
quarters, to shelter us from the very foam and spray of 
the sea. 

It is not easy for any one, who has not been in the 
like condition, to describe or conceive the consternation 
of men in such circumstances. We knew nothing where 20 
we were, or upon \i^hat land it was we were driven, 
whether an island or the main, whether inhabited or not 

224 



DEFOE 225 

inhabited. As the rage of the wind was still great, 
though rather less than at first, we could not so much as 
hope to have the ship hold many minutes without break- 25 
ing in pieces, unless the winds, by a kind of miracle, 
should turn immediately about. In a word, we sat look- 
ing one upon another, expecting death every moment, 
and every man acting as if preparing for another world, 
for there was little or nothing more for us to do in this. 30 
That which was our present comfort, and all the comfort 
we had, was, that contrary to our expectation the ship 
did not break yet, and that the master said the wind 
began to abate. 

Now, though we found that the wind did a little abate, 35 
yet the ship having thus struck upon the sand, and stick- 
ing too fast for us to expect her getting off, we were in 
a dreadful condition indeed, and had nothing to do but 
to think of saving our lives as well as we could. We 
had a boat at our stern just before the storm, but she 40 
was first stove by dashing against the ship's rudder, and 
in the next place she broke away, and either sunk or was 
driven off to sea, so there was no hope from her. We 
had another boat on board, but how to get her off into 
the sea was a doubtful thing. However, there was no 45 
room to debate, for we fancied the ship would break in 
pieces every minute, and some told us she was actually 
broken already. 

In this distress, the mate of our vessel lays hold of the 
boat, and with the help of the rest of the men, got her 50 
over the ship's side, and getting all into her, we let go, 
and committed ourselves, being eleven in number, to 
God's mercy and the wild sea. 

And now our case was very dismal indeed; for we all 
saw plainly, that the sea went so high, that the boat could 55 
Q 



226 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

not live, and that we should be inevitably drowned. As 
to making sail, we had none, nor, if we had, could we 
have done anything with it. So we worked at the oar 
towards the land, though with heavy hearts, like men 
going to execution; for we all knew, that when the boat 60 
came nearer the shore she would be dashed in a thousand 
pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we committed 
our souls to God in the most earnest manner, and the 
wind driving us towards the shore, we hastened our de- 
struction with our own hands, pulling as well as we could 65 
towards land. 

What the shore was, whether rock or sand, whether 
steep or shoal, we knew -not. The only hope that could 
rationally give us the least shadow of expectation was, 
if we might happen into some bay or gulf, or the mouth 70 
of some river, where by great chance we might run our 
boat in, or get under the lee of the land, and perhaps 
make smooth water. 

After we had rowed, or rather driven, about a league 
and a half, as we reckoned it, a raging wave, moun- 75 
tainlike, came rolling a-stern of us, and plainly bade us 
expect the coitp-de-grace. In a word, it took us with 
such a fury, that it overset the boat at once; and we 
were all swallowed up in a moment. 

Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which 80 
I felt when I sunk into the water. Though I swam very 
well, yet I could not deliver myself from the waves so as 
to draw breath, till that wave having driven me, or rather 
carried me, a vast way on towards the shore, and having 
spent itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost 85 
dry, but half dead with the water I took in. I had so 
much presence of mind, as well as breath left, that seeing 
myself nearer the mainland than I expected, I got upon 



DEFOE 227 

my feet, and endeavored to make on towards the land as 
fast as I could, before another wave should return and 90 
take me up again. But I soon found it was impossible 
to avoid itj for I saw the sea come after me as high as 
a great hill, and as furious as an enemy which I had no 
means or strength to contend with. My business was to 
hold my breath, and raise myself upon the water, if I 95 
•could; and so by swimming to preserve my breathing, 
and pilot myself towards the shore if possible. My 
greatest concern now being that the sea, as it would carry 
me a great way towards the shore when it came on, 
might not carry me back again with it when it gave back 100 
towards the sea. 

The wave that came upon me again buried me at once 
twenty or thirty feet deep in its own body, and I could 
feel myself carried with a mighty force and swiftness 
towards the shore a very great way; but I held my 105 
breath, and assisted myself to swim still forward with all 
my might. I was ready to burst with holding my 
breath, when, as I felt myself rising up, to my immedi- 
ate relief, I found my head and hands shoot out above 
the surface of the water. Though it was not two sec- no 
onds of time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved 
me greatly, gave me breath and new courage. I was cov- 
ered again with water a good while, but not so long but 
I held it out. Finding the water had spent itself, and 
began to return, I struck forward against the return of 115 
the waves, and felt ground again with my feet. I stood 
still a few moments to recover breath, and till the water 
went from me, and then took to my heels and ran with 
what strength I had farther towards the shore. But 
neither would this deliver me from the fury of the sea, t2o 
which came pouring in after me again, and twice more 



228 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

I was lifted up by the waves and carried forwards as 
before, the shore being very flat. 

The last time of these two had well near been fatal to 
me. The sea having hurried me along as before, landed 125 
me, or rather dashed me, against a piece of a rock, and 
that with such force, that it left me senseless, and indeed 
helpless, as to my own deliverance; for, the blow taking 
my side and breast, beat the breath, as it were, quite out 
of my body. Had it not returned again immediately, 1 130 
must have been strangled in the water; but I recovered 
a little before the return of the waves, and seeing I 
should be covered again with the water, I resolved to 
hold fast by a piece of the rock, and so hold my breath, 
if possible, till the wave went back. Now, as the waves 135 
were not so high as at first, being near land, I held my 
hold till the wave abated, and then fetched another run, 
which brought me so near the shore that the next wave, 
though it went over me, yet did not so swallow me up as 
to carry me away. The next run I took I got to the 140 
mainland, where, to my great comfort, I clambered up 
the clefts of the shore, and sat me down upon the grass, 
free from danger, and quite out of the reach of the 
water. 

I was now landed and safe on shore, and began to look 145 
up and thank God that my life was saved in a case 
wherein there was, some minutes before, scarce any 
room to hope. I believe it is impossible to express to 
the life what the ecstasies and transports of the soul are, 
when it is so saved, as I may say, out of the very grave. 150 
I walked about on the shore, lifting up my hands, and 
my whole being, as I may say, wrapt up in the contem- 
plation of my deliverance, making a thousand gestures 
and motions which I cannot describe, reflecting upon 



DEFOE 



229 



all my comrades that were drowned, and that there 155 
should not be one soul saved but myself. As for them, 
I never saw them afterwards, or any sign of them, except 
three of their hats, one cap, and two shoes that were not 
fellows. 



THE PLAGUE IN LONDON 

Superstitions 

It must not be forgot here, that the city and suburbs 
were prodigiously full of people at the time of this visi- 
tation, I mean at the time that it began; for though I 
have lived to see a farther increase, and mighty throngs 
of people settling in London, more than ever; yet we 5 
had always a notion that numbers of people, which, the 
wars being over, the armies disbanded, and the royal 
family and the monarchy being restored, had flocked to 
London to settle in business, or to depend upon, and 
attend the court for rewards of services, preferments, and 10 
the like, was such, that the town was computed to have 
in it above a hundred thousand people more than ever 
it held before; nay, some took upon them to say, it had 
twice as many, because all the ruined families of the 
royal party flocked hither; all the soldiers set up trades 15 
here, and abundance of families settled here; again, the 
court brought with it a great flux of pride and new 
fashions; all people were gay and luxurious, and the joy 
of the restoration had brought a vast many families to 
London. 20 

But I must go back again to the beginning of this sur- 
prising time; while the fears of the people were young, 
they were increased strangely by several odd accidents, 



230 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

which put together, it was really a wonder the whole 
body of the people did not rise as one man and abandon 25 
their dwellings, leaving the place as a space of ground 
designed by heaven for an Akeldama, doomed to be 
destroyed from the face of the earth, and that all that 
would be found in it would perish with it. I shall name 
but a few of these things; but sure they were so many, 30 
and so many wizards and cunning people propagating 
them, that I have often wondered there was any (women 
especially) left behind. 

In the first place, a blazing star or comet appeared for 
several months before the plague, as there did the year 35 
after, another, a little before the fire; the old women, 
and the phlegmatic hypochondriac part of the other sex, 
whom I could almost call old women too, remarked, es- 
pecially afterward, though not till both those judgments 
were over, that those two comets passed directly over the 40 
city, and that so very near the houses that it was plain 
they imported something peculiar to the city alone. 
That the comet before the pestilence was of a faint, dull, 
languid colour, and its motion very heavy, solemn, and 
slow; but that the comet before the fire, was bright and 45 
sparkling, or, as others said, flaming, and its motion 
swift and furious, and that, accordingly, one foretold a 
heavy judgment, slow but severe, terrible, and frightful, 
as was the plague. But the other foretold a stroke, 
sudden, swift, and fiery, as was the conflagration; nay, 50 
so particular some people were, that as they looked upon 
that comet preceding the fire, they fancied that they not 
only saw it pass swiftly and fiercely, and could perceive 
the motion with their eye, but even they heard it, that it 
made a rushing mighty noise, fierce and terrible, though 55 
at a distance, and but just perceivable. 



DEFOE 231 

I saw both these stars, and I must confess, had had so 
much of the common notion of such things in my head, 
that I was apt to look upon them as the forerunners and 
warnings of God's judgments, and especially when the 60 
plague had followed the first, I yet saw another of the 
like kind, I could not but say God had not yet sufficiently 
scourged the city. 

The apprehensions of the people were likewise strangely 
increased by the error of the times, in which, I think, 65 
the people, from what principle I cannot imagine, were 
more addicted to prophecies, and astrological conjura- 
tions, dreams, and old wives' tales, than ever they were 
before or since : whether this unhappy temper was origi- 
nally raised by the follies of some people who got money 70 
by it, that is to say, by printing predictions and prognos- 
tications, I know not, but certain it is, books frighted 
them terribly; such as Lily's Almanack, Gadbury's 
Astrological Predictions, Poor Robin's Almanack, and 
the like; also several pretended religious books, one en- 75 
titled. Come out of Her my People, lest ye be partaker 
of her Plagues; another called. Fair Warning; another 
Britain's Remembrancer, and many such; all, or most 
part of which, foretold directly or covertly, the ruin of 
the city; nay, some were so enthusiastically bold, as to 80 
run about the streets with their oral predictions, pre- 
tending they were sent to preach to the city; and one in 
particular, who, like Jonah to Nineveh, cried in the 
streets, Yet forty days and London shall be destroyed. I 
will not be positive whether he said yet forty days, or yet 85 
a few days. Another ran about naked, except a pair of 
drawers about his waist, crying day and night, like a 
man that Josephus mentions, who cried, Woe to Jerusa- 
lem! a little before the destruction of that city; so this 



232 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

poor naked creature cried, O ! the great and the dread- 90 
ful God ! and said no more, but repeated those words 
continually, with a voice and countenance full of horror, 
a swift pace, and nobody could ever find him to stop, or 
rest, or take any sustenance, at least that ever I could 
hear of. I met this poor ^creature several times in the 95 
streets, and would have spoke to him, but he would not 
enter into speech with me, or any one else; but kept on 
his dismal cries continually. 

These things terrified the people to the last degree; 
and especially when two or three times, as I have men- 100 
tioned already, they found one or two in the bills, dead 
of the plague at St. Giles's. Next to these public 
things, were the dreams of old women; or, I should say, 
the interpretation of old women upon other peoples' 
dreams; and these put abundance of people even out of 105 
their wits. Some heard voices warning them to be gone, 
for that there would be such a plague in London, so that 
the living would not be able to bury the dead; others 
saw apparitions in the air, and I must be allowed to say 
of both, I hope without breach of charity, that they heard no 
voices that never spake, and saw sights that never ap- 
peared; but the imagination of the people was really 
turned wayward and possessed; and no wonder if they 
who were poring continually at the clouds, saw shapes 
and figures, representations and appearances, which had 115 
nothing in them but air and vapour. Here they told us 
they saw a flaming sword held in a hand, coming out of 
a cloud, with a point hanging directly over the city. 
There they saw hearses and coffins in the air carrying to 
be buried. And there again, heaps of dead bodies lying 120 
unburied and the like; just as the imagination of the poor 
terrified people furnished them with matter to work upon. 



DEFOE 2 S3 

So hypochondriac fancies represent 

Ships, armies, battles in the firmament; 

Till steady eyes the exhalations solve, 125 

And all to its first matter, cloud, resolve. 

I could fill this account with the strange relations such 
people give every day of what they have seen; and every 
one was so positive of their having seen what they pre- 
tended to see, that there was no contradicting them with- 130 
out breach of friendship, or being accounted rude and 
unmannerly on the one hand, and profane and impene- 
trable on the other. One time before the plague was 
begun, otherwise than as I have said in St. Giles's, I 
think it was in March, seeing a crowd of people in the 135 
street, I joined with them to satisfy my curiosity, and 
found them all staring up into the air to see what a 
woman told them appeared plain to her, which was an 
angel clothed in white, with a fiery sword in his hand, 
waving it or brandishing it over his head. She described 140 
every part of the figure to the life, showed them the 
motion and the form, and the poor people came into it 
so eagerly and with so much readiness: Yes! I see it all 
plainly, says one, there's the sword as plain as can be; 
another saw the angel; one saw his very face, and cried 145 
out, What a glorious creature he was ! One saw one 
thing, and one another. I looked as earnestly as the 
rest, but, perhaps, not with so much willingness to be 
imposed upon; and I said, indeed, that I could see 
nothing but a white cloud, bright on one side, by the 150 
shining of the sun upon the other part. The woman 
endeavoured to show it to me, but could not make me 
confess that I saw it, which, indeed, if I had, I must 
have lied : but the woman turning to me looked me in 
the face and fancied I laughed, in which her imagina- 155 



234 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

tion deceived her too, for I really did not laugh, but was 
seriously reflecting how the poor people were terrified by 
the force of their own imagination. However, she 
turned to me, called me profane fellow, and a scoffer, 
told me that it was a time of God's anger, and dreadful 160 
judgments were approaching, and that despisers, such as 
I, should wander \_sic\ and perish. 

The people about her seemed disgusted as well as she, 
and I found there was no persuading them that I did not 
laugh at them, and that I should be rather mobbed by 165 
them than be able to undeceive them. So I left them, 
and this appearance passed for as real as the blazing star 
itself. 



JONATHAN SWIFT 

(1667-1745) 

THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE ANCIENT AND THE 
MODERN BOOKS IN SAINT JAMES' LIBRARY 

The Beginning of Hostilities 

This quarrel first began, as I have heard it affirmed by 
an old dweller in the neighbourhood, about a small spot 
of ground, lying and being upon one of the two tops of 
the hill Parnassus; the highest and largest of which had, 
it seems, been time out of mind in quiet possession of 5 
certain tenants, called the Ancients; and the other was 
held by the Moderns. But these, disliking their present 
station, sent certain ambassadors to the Ancients, com- 
plaining of a great nuisance; how the height of that part 
of Parnassus quite spoiled the prospect of theirs, es- 10 
pecially towards the East; and therefore, to avoid a war, 
offered them the choice of this alternative, either that 
the Ancients would please to remove themselves and their 
effects down to the lower summit, which the Moderns 
would gracefully surrender to them, and advance into 15 
their place; or else the said Ancients will give leave to 
the Moderns to come with shovels and mattocks, and 
level the said hill as low as they shall think it convenient. 
To which the Ancients made answer, how little they ex- 
pected such a message as this from a colony whom they 20 
had admitted, out of their own free grace, to so near a 

235 



236 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

neighbourhood. That, as to their own seat, they were 
aborigines of it, and therefore to talk with them of a re- 
moval or surrender was a language they did not under- 
stand. That, if the height of the hill on their side 25 
shortened the prospect of the Moderns, it was a disad- 
vantage they could not help; but desired them to con- 
sider whether that injury (if it be any) were not largely 
recompensed by the shade and shelter it afforded them. 
That, as to the levelling or digging down, it was either 30 
folly or ignorance to propose it, if they did or did not 
know how that side of the hill was an entire rock, which 
would break their tools and hearts, without any damage 
to itself. That they would therefore advise the Moderns 
rather to raise their own side of the hill than dream of 35 
pulling down that of the Ancients; to the former of 
which they would not only give license, but also largely 
contribute. All this was rejected by the Moderns with 
much indignation, who still insisted upon one of the two 
expedients; and so this difference broke out into a long 40 
and obstinate war, maintained on the one part by reso- 
lution, and by the courage of certain leaders and allies; 
but, on the other, by the greatness of their number, 
upon all defeats affording continual recruits. In this 
quarrel whole rivulets of ink have been exhausted, and 45 
the virulence of both parties enormously augmented. 
Now, it must be here understood, that ink is the great 
missive weapon in all battles of the learned, which, 
conveyed through a sort of engine called a quill, infinite 
numbers of these are darted at the enemy by the valiant 50 
on each side, with equal skill and violence, as if it were 
an engagement of porcupines. This malignant liquor 
was compounded, by the engineer who invented it, of 
two ingredients which are gall and copperas; by its bit- 



SWIFT 237 

terness and venom to suit, in some degree, as well as to 55 
foment, the genius of the combatants. And as the Gre- 
cians, after an engagement, when they could not agree 
about the victory, were wont to set up trophies on both 
sides, the beaten party being content to be at the same 
expense, to keep itself in countenance (a laudable and 60 
ancient custom, happily revived of late in the art of 
war), so the learned, after a sharp and bloody dispute, 
do, on both sides, hang out their trophies too, which 
ever comes by the worst. These trophies have largely 
inscribed on them the merits of the cause ; a full impar- 65 
tial account of such a Battle, and how the victory fell 
clearly to the party that set them up. They are known 
to the world under several names; as disputes, argu- 
ments, rejoinders, brief considerations, answers, replies, 
remarks, reflections, objections, confutations. For a 70 
very few days they are fixed up in all public places, either 
by themselves or their representatives, for passengers to 
gaze at; whence the chief est and largest are removed to 
certain magazines they call libraries, there to remain in 
a quarter purposely assigned them, and thenceforth 75 
begin to be called books of controversy. 

In these books is wonderfully instilled and preserved 
the spirit of each warrior while he is alive; and after 
his death his soul transmigrates thither to inform them. 
This, at least, is the more common opinion; but I be- 80 
lieve it is with libraries as with other cemeteries, where 
some philosophers affirm that a certain spirit, which 
they call brutum houiinis, hovers over the monument, 
till the body is corrupted and turns to dust or to worms, 
but then vanishes or dissolves; so we may say a restless 85 
spirit haunts over every book, till dust or worms have 
seized upon it — which to some may happen in a few 



238 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

days, but to others later — ■ and therefore, books of con- 
troversy being, of all others, haunted by the most dis- 
orderly spirits, have always been confined in a separate 90 
lodge from the rest, and for fear of a mutual violence 
against each other, it was thought prudent by our ances- 
tors to bind them to the peace with strong iron chains. 
Of which invention the original occasion was this : 
When the works of Skotus first came out, they were car- 95 
ried to a certain library, and had lodgings appointed 
them; but this author was no sooner settled than he 
went to visit his master Aristotle, and there both con- 
certed together to seize Plato by main force, and turn 
him out from his ancient station among the divines, 100 
where he had peaceably dwelt near eight hundred years. 
The attempt succeeded, and the two usurpers have 
reigned ever since in his stead; but, to maintain quiet 
for the future, it was decreed that all polemics of the 
larger size should be held fast with a chain. 105 

By this expedient, the public peace of libraries might 
certainly have been preserved if a new species of contro- 
versial books had not arose of late years, instinct with a 
more malignant spirit, from the war above mentioned 
between the learned about the higher summit of no 
Parnassus. 

When these books were first admitted into the public 
libraries, I remember to have said, upon occasion, to 
several persons concerned, how I was sure they would 
create broils wherever they came, unless a world of care 115 
were taken; and therefore I advised that the champions 
of each side should be coupled together, or otherwise 
mixed, that, like the blending of contrary poisons, their 
malignity might be employed among themselves. And 
it seems I was neither an ill prophet nor an ill counsel- 120 



SWIFT . 239 

lor; for it was nothing else but the neglect of this caution 
which gave occasion to the terrible fight that happened 
on Friday last between the Ancient and Modern Books 
in the King's Library. Now, because the talk of this 
battle is so fresh in everybody's mouth, and the expecta- 125 
tion of the town so great to be informed in the particu- 
lars, I, being possessed of all qualifications requisite in 
an historian, and retained by neither party, have re- 
solved to comply with the urgent importunity of my 
friends, by writing down a full impartial account thereof. 130 

The guardian of the Regal Library, a person of great 
valour, but chiefly renowned for his humanity, had been 
a fierce champion for the Moderns, and, in an engage- 
ment upon Parnassus, had vowed with his own hands to 
knock down two of the ancient chiefs who guarded a 135 
small pass on the superior rock, but, endeavouring to 
climb up, was cruelly obstructed by his own unhappy 
weight and tendency towards his centre, a quality to 
which those of the Modern party are extremely subject; 
for, being lightheaded, they have, in speculation, a 140 
wonderful agility, and conceive nothing too high for 
them to mount, but, in reducing to practice, discover 
a mighty pressure about their posteriors and their heels. 
Having thus failed in his design, the disappointed 
champion bore a cruel rancour to the Ancients, which 145 
he resolved to gratify by showing all marks of his favour 
to the books of their adversaries, and lodging them in 
the fairest apartments; when, at the same time, what- 
ever book had the boldness to own itself for an advo- 
cate of the Ancients was buried alive in some obscure 150 
corner, and threatened, upon the least displeasure, to 
be turned out of doors. Besides, it so happened that 
about this time there was a strange confusion of place 



240 . FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

among all the books in the library, for which several 
reasons were assigned. Some imputed it to a great heap 155 
of learned dust, which a perverse wind blew off from a 
shelf of Moderns into the keeper's eyes. Others main- 
tained that, by walking much in the dark about the li- 
brary, he had quite lost the situation of it out of his 
head; and therefore, in replacing his books, he was apt 160 
to mistake and clap Descartes next to Aristotle, poor 
Plato had got between Hobbes and the Seven Wise Mas- 
ters, and Virgil was hemmed in with Dryden on one 
side and Wither on the other. 

Meanwhile, those books that were advocates for the 165 
Moderns, chose out one from among them to make a 
progress through the whole library, examine the number 
and strength of their party, and concert their affairs. 
This messenger performed all things very industriously, 
and brought back with him a list of their forces, in all 170 
fifty thousand, consisting chiefly of light-horse, heavy- 
armed foot, and mercenaries; whereof the foot were in 
general but sorrily armed and worse clad; their horses 
large, but extremely out of case and heart; however, 
some few, by trading among the Ancients, had furnished 175 
themselves tolerable enough. 

While things were in this ferment, discord grew ex- 
tremely high; hot words passed on both sides, and ill 
blood was plentifully bred. Here a solitary Ancient, 
squeezed up among a whole shelf of Moderns, offered 180 
fairly to dispute the case, and to prove by manifest 
reason that the priority was due to them from long pos- 
session, and in regard of their prudence, antiquity, and, 
above all, their great merits toward the Moderns. But 
these denied the premises, and seemed very much to 185 
wonder how the Ancients could pretend to insist upon 



SWIFT 241 

their antiquity, when it was so plain (if they went to 
that) that the Moderns were much the more ancient of 
the two. As for any obligations they owed to the 
Ancients, they renounced them all. "It is true," said 190 
they, "we are informed some few of our party have been 
so mean as to borrow their subsistence from you, but 
the rest, infinitely the greater number (and especially 
we French and English), were so far from stooping to 
so base an example, that there never passed, till this 195 
very hour, six words between us. For our horses were 
of our own breeding, our arms of our own forging, and 
our clothes of our own cutting out and sewing." Plato 
was by chance upon the next shelf, and observing those 
that spoke to be in the ragged plight mentioned a while 200 
ago, their jades lean and foundered, their weapons of 
rotten wood, their armour rusty, and nothing but rags 
underneath, he laughed loud, and in his pleasant way 
swore he believed them. 

Now, the Moderns had not proceeded in their late 205 
negociation with secrecy enough to escape the notice of 
the enemy. For those advocates who had begun the 
quarrel, by setting first on foot the dispute of prece- 
dency, talked so loud of coming to a battle, that Sir 
William Temple happened to overhear them, and gave 210 
immediate intelligence to the Ancients, who thereupon 
drew up their scattered troops together, resolving to act 
upon the defensive; upon which, several of the Mod- 
erns fled over to their party, and among the rest Temple 
himself. This Temple, having been educated and long 215 
conversed among the Ancients, was, of all the Moderns, 
their greatest favourite, and became their greatest 
champion. 



242 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

GULLIVER'S TRAVELS 
The Academy of Lagado 

I WAS received very kindly by the warden, and went 
for many days to the academy. Every room has in it 
one or more projectors, and I believe I could not be in 
fewer than five hundred rooms. The first man I saw was 
of a meagre aspect, with sooty hands and face, his hair 5 
and beard long, ragged, and singed in several places. 
His clothes, shirt, and skin were all of the same color. 
He had been eight years upon a project for extracting 
sunbeams out of cucumbers, which were to be put in 
vials hermetically sealed, and let out to warm the air in 10 
raw, inclement summers. He told me he did not doubt 
in eight years more that he should be able to supply the 
governor's gardens with sunshine at a reasonable rate; 
but he complained that his stock was low, and entreated 
me to give him something as an encouragement to inge- 15 
nuity, especially since this had been a very dear season 
for cucumbers. I made him a small present, for my 
lord had furnished me with money on purpose, because 
he knew their practice of begging from all who go to 
see them. 20 

I saw another at work to calcine ice into gunpowder, 
who likewise showed me a treatise he had written con- 
cerning the malleability of fire, which he intended to 
publish. 

There was a most ingenious architect, who had con- 25 
trived a new method of building houses, by beginning 
at the roof and working downward to the foundation; 
which he justified to me by the like practice of those 
two prudent insects, the bee and the spider. 



SWIFT 



243 



In another department, I was highly pleased with a 30 
projector who had found a device of ploughing the 
ground with hogs, to save the charges of ploughs, cattle, 
and labor. The method is this : In an acre of ground 
you bury, at six inches distance, and eight deep, a quan- 
tity of acorns, dates, chestnuts, and other mast or vege- 35 
tables, whereof these animals are fondest. Then you 
drive six hundred or more of them into the field, where 
in a few days they will root up the whole ground in 
search of their food, and make it fit for sowing. It is 
true, upon experiment, they found the charge and 40 
trouble very great, and they had little or no crop. 
However, it is not doubted that this invention may be 
capable of great improvement. 

There was an astronomer who had undertaken to place 
a sundial upon the great weathercock in the town-house 45 
by adjusting the annual and diurnal motions of the earth 
and sun so as to answer and coincide with all accidental 
turnings of the wind. I visited many other apartments, 
but shall not trouble my readers with all the curiosities 
I observed, being studious of brevity. 50 

We crossed a walk to the other part of the academy, 
where, as I have already said, the projectors in specula- 
tive learning resided. The first professor I saw was in 
a very large room, with forty pupils about him. After 
salutation, observing me to look earnestly upon a frame 55 
which took up the greatest part of both the length and 
breadth of the room, he said perhaps I might wonder to 
see him employed in a project for improving specula- 
tive knowledge by practical mechanical operations; but 
the world would soon be sensible of its usefulness, and 60 
he flattered himself that a more noble, exalted thought 
never sprang in any other man's head. Every one 



244 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

knows how laborious the usual method is of attaining to 
arts and sciences; whereas, by his contrivance, the most 
ignorant person, at a reasonable charge, and with a little 65 
bodily labor, may write books in philosophy, poetry, 
politics, laws, mathematics, and theology, without the 
least assistance from genius or study. He then led me 
to the frame, about the sides whereof all his pupils stood 
in ranks. It was twenty feet square, placed in the 70 
middle of the room. The superficies was composed of 
several bits of wood, about the bigness of a die, but 
some larger than others. They were all linked together 
by slender wires. These bits of wood were covered, on 
every square, with papers pasted on them; and on these 75 
papers were written all the words of their language, in 
their several moods, tenses, and declensions, but without 
any order. The professor then desired me to observe, 
for he was going to set his engine at work. The pupils, 
at his command, took each of them hold of an iron 80 
handle, whereof there were forty fixed around the edges 
of the frame; and giving them a sudden turn, the whole 
disposition of the words was entirely changed. He 
then commanded six-and-thirty of the lads to read the 
several lines softly, as they appeared upon the frame; 85 
and where they found three or four words together that 
might make part of a sentence, they dictated to the four 
remaining boys, who were scribes. This work was re- 
peated three or four times, and at every turn the engine 
was so contrived that the words shifted into new places 90 
as the square bits of wood moved upside down. 

Six hours a day the young students were employed in 
this labor; and the professor showed me several volumes 
in large folio, already collected, of broken sentences, 
which he intended to piece together, and out of those 95 



SWIFT 245 

rich materials to give the world a complete body of all 
arts and sciences; which, however, might be still im- 
proved, and much expedited, if the public would raise 
a fund for making and employing five hundred such 
frames in Lagado, and oblige the managers to contribute 100 
in common their several collections. He assured me 
that this invention had employed all his thoughts from 
his youth; that he had emptied the whole vocabulary 
into his frame, and made the strictest computation of 
the general proportion there is in books between the 105 
number of particles, nouns, and verbs, and other parts 
of speech. . . . 

In the school of political projectors, I was but ill en- 
tertained; the professors appearing, in my judgment, 
wholly out of their senses, which is a scene that never no 
fails to make me melancholy. These unhappy people 
were proposing schemes for persuading monarchs to 
choose favorites upon the score of their wisdom, ca- 
pacity, and virtue; of teaching ministers to consult the 
public good; of rewarding merit, great abilities, and 115 
eminent services; of instructing princes to know their 
true interest, by placing it on the same foundation with 
that of their people; of choosing for employments per- 
sons qualified to exercise them; with many other wild, 
impossible chimeras that never entered before into the 120 
heart of man to conceive, and confirmed in me the old 
observation, ''that there is nothing so extravagant and 
irrational which some philosophers have not maintained 
for truth." 



JOSEPH ADDISON 

(1672-1719) 

THE SPECTATOR 
No. 112. Sunday in the Country : Sir Roger at Church 

I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, 
and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a 
human institution, it would be the best method that could 
have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of 
mankind. It is certain the country people would soon 5 
degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were 
there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which 
the whole village meet together with their best faces, 
and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one 
another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties 10 
explained to them, and join together in adoration of 
the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the 
whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the 
notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon 
appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting 15 
all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the 
eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes him- 
self as much in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon 
the 'Change, the whole parish politics being generally 
discussed in that place either after sermon or before the 20 
bell rings. 

246 



ADDISON 



247 



My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has 
beautified the inside of his church with several texts of 
his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome 
pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his 25 
own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming 
to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; 
and that in order to make them kneel and join in the 
responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a 
common-prayer-book; and at the same time employed 30 
an itinerant singing master, who goes about the country 
for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of 
the Psalms; upon which they now very much value them- 
selves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches 
that I have ever heard. 35 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, 
he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody 
to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has 
been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recov- 
ering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if 40 
he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them him- 
self, or sends his servant to them. Several other of the 
old knight's particularities break out upon these occa- 
sions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in 
the singing Psalms half a minute after the rest of the 45 
congregation have done with it; sometimes, when he is 
pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces 
amen three or four times to the same prayer; and some- 
times stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, 
to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants 50 
are missing. 

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old 
friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one 
John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not to 



248 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

drsrafb the congregation. This John Matthews it seems 55 
is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time 
was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority 
of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which 
accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very 
good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough 60 
to see any thing ridiculous in his behaviour; besides 
that the general good sense and worthiness of his char- 
acter make his friends observe these little singularities as 
foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. 

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes 65 
to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The 
knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between 
a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on 
each side; and every now and then inquires how such a 
one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he 'jo 
does not see at church; which is understood as a secret 
reprimand to the person that is absent. 

The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechis- 
ing day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy 
that answers well, he has ordered a bible to be given him 75 
next day for his encouragement; and sometimes accom- 
panies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger 
has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's 
place; and that he may encourage the young fellows to 
make themselves perfect in the church service, has prom- Zo 
ised, upon the death of the present incumbent, who is 
very old, to bestow it according to merit. 

The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his 
chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, 
is the more remarkable, because the very next village is 85 
famous for the differences and contentions that rise be- 
tween the parson and the 'squire, who live in a per- 



ADDISON 



249 



petual state of war. The parson is always preaching at 
the 'squire; and the 'squire, to be revenged on the 
parson, never comes to church. 90 

The 'squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe- 
stealers; while the parson instructs them every Sunday 
in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them, in 
almost every sermon, that he is a better man than his 
patron. In short, matters are come to such an extremity, 95 
that the 'squire has not said his prayers either in public 
or private this half year; and that the parson threatens 
him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him 
in the face of the whole congregation. 

Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the coun- 100 
try, are very fatal to the ordinary people; who are so 
used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as much 
deference to the understanding of a man of an estate, 
as of a man of learning; and are very hardly brought to 
regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that 105 
is preached to them, when they know there are several 
men of five hundred a year who do not believe it. 

No. 159. The Vision of Alirzah 

When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several ori- 
ental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among 
others I met with one entitled, the Visions of Mirzah, 
which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend 
to give it to the public when I have no other entertain- 5 
ment for them; and shall begin with the first vision, 
which I have translated word for word as follows : 

" On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the 
custom of my forefathers I always kept holy, after hav- 
ing washed myself, and offered up ray morning devo- lo 



250 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

tions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to 
pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As 
I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I 
fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of 
human life; and passing from one thought to another, 15 
^surely, ' said I, 'man is but a shadow and life a dream.' 
Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the 
summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I dis- 
covered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical 
instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he ap- 20 
plied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The 
sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a 
variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and 
altogether different from anything I had ever heard. 
They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are 25 
played to the departed souls of good men upon their first 
arrival in paradise, to wear out the impressions of their 
last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that 
happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. 

" I had been often told that the rock before me was 30 
the haunt of a genius; and that several had been enter- 
tained with music who had passed by it, but never heard 
that the musician had before made himself visible. When 
he had raised my thoughts, by those transporting airs 
which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversa- 35 
tion, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beck- 
oned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me 
to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with 
that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and 
as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating 40 
strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. 
The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion 
and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, 



ADDISON 



251 



and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions 
with which I approached him. He lifted me from the 45 
ground, and taking me by the hand, 'Mirzah, ' said he, 
'I have heard thee in thy soliloquies, follow me.' 

"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, 
and placed me on the top of it. Xast thy eyes east- 
ward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest. ' 'I see,' 50 
said I, 'a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water roll- 
ing through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 
'is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou 
seest is part of the great tide of eternity.' ' What is the 
reason,' said I, 'that the tide I see rises out of a thick 55 
mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at 
the other? ' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion 
of eternity which is called time, measured out by the "^ 
sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its 
consummation. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that 60 
is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me 
what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see abridge,' said I, 
'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou 
seest,' said he, 'is human life; consider it attentively.' 
Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it con- 65 
sisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several 
broken arches, which added to those that were entire, 
made up the number about an hundred. As I was count- 
ing the arches the genius told me that this bridge con- 
sisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood 70 
swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous 
condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me, further,' said 
he, 'what thou discoverest on it.' 'I see multitudes of 
people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hang- 
ing on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I 75 
saw several of the passengers dropping through the 



252 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

— bridge, into the great tide that flowed underneath it; 
and upon further examination, perceived there were 
innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, 
which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell 80 
through them into the tide and immediately disappeared. 
These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance 
of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke 
through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. 
They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied 85 
and lay closer together towards the end of the arches 
that were entire. 

"There were indeed some persons, but their number 
was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march 
on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, 90 
being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 

" I passed some time in the contemplation of this won- 
derful structure, and the great variety of objects which it 
presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy 
to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of 95 
mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood 
by them to save themselves. Some were looking up 
towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the 
midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. 
Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of baubles that 100 
glittered in their eyes and danced before them, but often 
when they thought themselves within the reach of them, 
their footing failed and down they sunk. In this confu- 
sion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their 
hands, and others with lancets, who ran to and fro upon 105 
the bridge, thrusting several persons upon trap-doors 
which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they 
might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon 
them. 



ADDISON 253 

"The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melan- no 
choly prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon 
it: 'take thine eyes off the bridge,' said he, 'and tell me 
if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend.' 
Upon looking up, 'what mean,' said I, 'those great 
flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the 115 
bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see 
vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many 
other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, 
that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.' 
'These,' said the genius, 'are envy, avarice, supersti- 120 
tion, despair, love, with the like cares and passions, that 
infest human life.' 

"I here fetched a deep sigh; 'alas,' said I, 'man was 
made in vain ! How is he given away to misery and 
mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death! ' 125 
The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, 
bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no 
more, ' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his existence, 
in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that 
thick mist into which the tide bears the several genera- 130 
tions of mortals that fall into it.' I directed my sight 
as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius 
strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissi- 
pated part of the mist that was before too thick for the 
eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther 135 
end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that 
had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst 
of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds 
still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could dis- 
cover nothing in it: but the other appeared to me a vast 14c 
ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were cov- 
ered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thou- 



2 54 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

sand little shining seas that ran among them. I could 
see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon 
their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the 145 
sides of the fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and 
could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling 
waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Glad- 
ness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a 
scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might 150 
fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me 
there was no passage to them, except through the gates 
of death that I saw opening every moment upon the 
bridge. 'The islands,' said he, 'that lie so fresh and 
green before thee, and with which the whole face of the 155 
ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more 
in number than the sands on the sea-shore; there are 
myriads of islands behind those which thou here dis- 
coverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even thine 
imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions 160 
of good men after death, who, according to the degree 
and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed 
among these several islands, which abound with pleas- 
ures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the rel- 
ishes and perfections of those who are settled in them : 165 
every island is a paradise, accommodated to its respective 
inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirzah, habitations worth 
contending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives 
thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death 
to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an exist- 170 
ence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such 
an eternity reserved for him.' I gazed with inexpres- 
sible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said 
I, 'show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid 
under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the 175 



ADDISON 



255 



other side of the rock of adamant. ' The genius making 
me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him 
a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then 
turned again to the vision which I had been so long con- 
templating, but, instead of the rolling tide, the arched 180 
bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long 
hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels 
grazing upon the sides of it." 

No. 565. Contemplation of the Divine Perfections sug- 
gested by the Sky at Night 

I was yesterday about sun-set walking in the open 
fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first 
amused myself with all the richness and variety of colors, 
which appeared in the western parts of heaven : in pro- 
portion as they faded away and went out, several stars 5 
and planets appeared one after another, till the whole 
firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was 
exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the season of 
the year, and by the rays of all those luminaries that 
passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most 10 
beautifnl white. To complete the scene, the full moon 
rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton 
takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture 
of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed 
among softer lights, than that which the sun had before 15 
discovered to us. 

As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright- 
ness, and taking her progress among the constellations, 
a thought rose in me which I believe very often per- 
plexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative 20 
natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection, 



256 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

" When I consider the heavens, the work of thy lingers, 
the moon and the stars which thou has ordained; what 
is man, that thou art mindful of him, and the son of 
man that thou regardest him ? " In the same manner, 25 
when I considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak 
more philosophically, of suns, which were then shining 
upon me, with those innumerable sets of planets or 
worlds, which were moving round their respective suns; 
when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another 30 
heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this which 
we discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior 
firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great a 
distance that they may appear to the inhabitants of the 
former as the stars to us; in short, whilst I pursued this 31, 
thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignifi- 
cant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of 
God's works. 

Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the crea- 
tion, with all the host of planetary worlds that move 40 
about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they 
would not be missed, more than a grain of sand upon the 
sea-shore. The space they possess is so exceedingly 
little in comparison of the whole, that it would scarce 
make a blank in the creation. The chasm would be 45 
imperceptible to an eye, that could take in the whole 
compass of nature, and pass from one end of the crea- 
tion to the other; as it is possible there may be such a 
sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at 
present more exalted than ourselves. We see many 50 
stars by the help of glasses, which we do not discover 
with our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, 
the more still are our discoveries. Huygenius carries 
this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible 



ADDISON 257 

there may be stars whose light is not yet travelled down 55 
to us, since their first creation. There is no question 
but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when 
we consider that it is the work of infinite power, 
prompted by infinite goodness, with an infinite space to 
exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds 60 
to it? 

To return therefore to my first thought, I could not 
but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that 
was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so 
great a work under his care and superintendency. I was 65 
afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of 
nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures, 
which in all probability swarm through all these immeas- 
urable regions of matter. 

In order to recover myself from this mortifying 70 
thought, I considered that it took its rise from those 
narrow conceptions, which we are apt to entertain of 
the divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many 
different objects at the same time. If we are careful to 
inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. 75 
This imperfection which we observe in ourselves, is an 
imperfection that cleaves in some degree to creatures of 
the highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is, 
beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of 
every created being is confined to a certain measure of So 
space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a 
certain number of objects. The sphere in which we 
move and act and understand, is of a wider circumfer- 
ence to one creature than another, according as we rise 
one above another in the scale of existence. But the 85 
widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When 
therefore we reflect on the divine nature, we are so used 



258 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that 
we cannot forbear in some measure ascribing it to him 
in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason 90 
indeed assures us that his attributes are infinite, but the 
poorness of our conceptions is such that it cannot for- 
bear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till 
our reason comes again to our succor, and throws down 
all those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and 95 
are natural to the mind of man. 

If we consider Him in his omnipresence : His being 
passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame 
of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of 
him. There is nothing he has made, that is either so 100 
distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does 
not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the 
substance of every being, whether material or immate- 
rial, and as intimately present to it, as that being is to 
itself. It would be an imperfection in him, were he 105 
able to remove out of one place into another, or to with- 
draw himself from anything he has created, or from any 
part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad 
to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language 
of the old philosopher, he is a being whose centre is no 
every where, and his circumference no where. 

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omni- 
present. His omniscience indeed necessarily and natu- 
rally flows from" his omnipresence. He cannot but be 
conscious of every motion that arises in the whole mate- 115 
rial world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of 
every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to 
every part of which he is thus intimately united. Several 
moralists have considered the creation as the temple of 
God, which he has built with his own hands, and which 120 



ADDISON 259 

is filled with his presence. Others have considered in- 
finite space as the receptacle or rather the habitation of 
the Almighty : but the noblest and most exalted way of 
considering this infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, 
who calls it the sensoi'iwn of the Godhead. Brutes and 125 
men have their sensoriola, or little seiisoriums, by which 
they apprehend the presence, and perceive the actions, 
of a few objects that lie contiguous to them. Their 
knowledge and observation turn within a very narrow 
circle. But as God Almighty cannot but perceive and 130 
know every thing in which he resides, infinite space gives 
room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ 
to omniscience. 

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one 
glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the 135 
creation, should it for millions of years continue its 
progress through infinite space with the same activity, it 
would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, 
and encompassed round with the immensity of the God- 
head. Whilst we are in the body he is not less present 140 
with us because he is concealed from us. " O that I 
knew where I might find him!" says Job. "Behold, 
I go forward, but he is not there ; and backward, but I 
cannot perceive him : on the left hand where he does 
work, but I cannot behold him : he hideth himself on 145 
the right hand, that I cannot see him." In short, 
reason as well as revelation assures us, that he cannot 
be absent from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered 
by us. ... 



ALEXANDER POPE 

(1688-1744) 

ESSAY ON CRITICISM 

Sta ndards ' of Taste 

Some to Conceit alone their taste confine, 

And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at ev'ry line ; 

Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit ; 

One glaring Chaos and wild heap of wit. 

Poets, like painters, thus, unskill'd to trace 5 

The naked nature and the living grace, 

With gold and jewels cover ev'ry part, 

And hide with ornaments their want of art. 

True wit is nature to advantage dress'd ; 

What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd ; 10 

Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find. 

That gives us back the image of our mind. 

As shades more sweetly recommend the Hght, 

So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit. 

For works may have more wit than does 'em good, 15 

As bodies perish through excess of blood. 

Others for Language all their care express, 
And value books, as women men, for dress : 
Their praise is still, — the style is excellent ; 
The sense, they humbly take upon content. 20 

Words are like leaves ; and where they most abound. 
Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found : 

260 



POPE 261 

False eloquence, like the prismatic glass, 

Its gaudy colours spreads on ev'ry place ; 

The face of nature we no more survey, 25 

All glares alike, without distinction gay : 

But true expression, like th' unchanging sun, 

Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon ; 

It gilds all objects, but it alters none. 

Expression is the dress of thought, and still 30 

Appears more decent, as more suitable ; 

A vile conceit in pompous words expressed 

Is like a clown in regal purple dressed : 

For diff' rent styles with diff 'rent subjects sort. 

As sev'ral garbs with country, town, and court. 35 

Some by old words to fame have made pretence, 

Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense ; 

Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style. 

Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learn'd smile, 

Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, 40 

These sparks with awkward vanity display 

What the fine gentleman wore yesterday ; 

And but so mimic ancient wits at best, 

As apes our grandsires, in their doublets drest. 

In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold ; 45 

Alike fantastic, if too new or old : 

Be not the first by whom the new are try'd, 

Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

But most by numbers judge a poet's song, 
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong : 50 
In the bright muse, tho' thousand charms conspire, 
Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire ; 
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
Not mend their minds ; as some to church repair, 
Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 55 



262 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

These equal syllables alone require, 

Tho' oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 

While expletives their feeble aid do join ; 

And ten low words oft creep in one dull hne : 

While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 60 

With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; 

Where'er you find 'the cooling western breeze/ 

In the next line, it 'whispers through the trees' : 

If crystal streams 'with pleasing murmurs creep,' 

The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with 'sleep' : 65 

Then, at the last and only couplet fraught 

With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, 

A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know 70 

What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; 

And praise the easy vigour of a line. 

Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness join. 

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, 

As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 75 

'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence. 

The sound must seem an echo to the sense : 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. 

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; 

But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 80 

The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : 

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 

The line too labours, and the words move slow : 

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, 84 

Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main : 

Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise. 

And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 

"While at each change, the son of Libyan Jove 






POPE 263 

Now burns with glory, and then melts with love ; 

Now his fierce eyes with sparkhng fury glow, 90 

Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: 

Persians and Greeks hke turns of nature found. 

And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound ! 

The power of music all our hearts allow, 

And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. 95 

Avoid extremes ; and shun the fault of such, 

Who still are pleas'd too httle or too much. 

At ev'ry trifle scorn to take offence. 

That always shows great pride, or httle sense : 

Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best 100 

Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. 

Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move ; 

For fools admire, but men of sense approve : 

As things seem large which we through mists decry, 

Dulness is ever apt to magnify. 105 

Some foreign writers, some our own despise ; 
The ancients only, or the moderns prize. 
Thus wit, like faith, by each man is apply'd 
To one smaU sect, and all are damn'd beside. 
Meanly they seek the blessing to confine, no 

And force that sun but on a part to shine, 
Which not alone the southern wit sublimes, 
But ripens spirits in cold northern chmes ; 
Which from the first has shone in ages past, 
Enhghts the present, and shall warm the last ; 115 

Tho' each may feel increases and decays, 
And see now clearer and now darker days. 
Regard not, then, if wit be old or new. 
But blame the false, and value still the true. 

Some ne'er advance a judgment of their own, 120 

But catch the spreading notion of the Town ; 



264 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

They reason and conclude by precedent, 

And own stale nonsense which they ne'er mvent. 

Some judge of author's names, not works, and then 

Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men. 125 

Of all this servile herd, the worst is he 

That in proud dulness joins with Quality. 

A constant critic at the great man's board, 

To fetch and carry nonsense for my Lord. 

What woful stuff this madrigal would be, 130 

In some starv'd hackney sonneteer, or me? 

But let a Lord once own the happy lines, 

How the wit brightens ! how the stile refines ! 

Before his sacred name flies ev'ry fault. 

And each exalted stanza teems with thought ! 135 



THE ESSAY ON MAN 
Book I 

Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state : 
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know, 
Or who could suffer being here below? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, 
And licks the hand just ras'd to shed his blood. 
Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n, 
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n : 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall. 



POPE 265 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. • 

Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 15 
Wait the great teacher death, and God adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
But gives that hope, to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
Man never is, but always to be blest. 20 

The soul (uneasy and confin'd) from home. 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Lo the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
His soul, proud science never taught to stray 25 

Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n, 
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n ; 
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd. 
Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, 3° 

Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
To be, contents his natural desire. 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 35. 

His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Go, wiser thou ! and, in thy scale of sense, 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such, 
Say, Here he gives too httle, there too much : 40 

Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust ; 
If man alone ingross not Heav'n's high care. 
Alone made perfect here, immortal there : 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 45 



266 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Rejudge his justice, be the God of God. 

In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error Hes ; 

All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 

Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 

Men would be angels, angels would be Gods. 50 

Aspiring to be Gods, if angels fell, 

Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 

And who but wishes to invert the laws 

Of order, sins against th' Eternal Cause. 

Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, 55 

Earth for whose use ? Pride answers ' 'Tis for mine : 
For me kind Nature wakes her genial pow'r. 
Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r ; 
Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew. 
The juice nectareous, and the balmy dew ; 60 

For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings ; 
For me, health gushes from a thousand springs ; 
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise ; 
My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies.' 

But errs not Nature from this gracious end, 65 

From burning suns when livid deaths descend. 
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep 
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep? 
^No ('tis rephed) the first Almighty Cause 
Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws ; 70 

Th' exceptions few ; some change since all began : 
And what created i:)erfect? — Why then Man?' 
If the great end be human happiness. 
Then nature deviates ; and can man do less ? 
As much that end a constant course requires 75 

Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of man's desires ; 
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies, 
As men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. 



POPE. 267 

If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, 

Why then a Borgia, or a Catihne ? 80 

Who knows but He, whose hand the Hght'ning forms, 

Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms ; 

Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind. 

Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? 

From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs ; 85 

Account for moral, as for nat'ral things : 

Wliy charge we heav'n in those, in these acquit? 

In both, to reason right is to submit. 

Better for us, perhaps, it might appear. 
Were there all harmony, all virtue here ; go 

That never air or ocean felt the wind ; 
That never passion discompos'd the mind. 
But all subsists by elemental strife ; 
And passions are the elements of life. 
The gen'ral order, since the whole began, 95 

Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. 

What would this man? Now upward will he soar, 
And little less than angels, would be more ; 
Now looking downwards, just as griev'd appears 
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 100 

Made for his use all creatures if he call. 
Say, what their use, had he the pow'rs of all ; 
Nature to these, without profusion, kind, 
The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd ; 
Each seeming want compensated of course, 105 

Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force ; 
i\ll in exact proportion to the state ; 
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. 
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own : 
Is heav'n unkind to man, and man alone? no 

Shall he alone, whom rational we call, 



268 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Be pleas'd with nothing, if not blessed with all? 

The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) 
Is not to act or think beyond mankind ; 
No pow'rs of body or of soul to share, 115 

But what his nature and his state can bear. 
Why has not man a microscopic eye? 
For this plain reason, man is not a fly. 
Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, 
T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n? 120 

Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er. 
To smart and agonize at every pore ? 
Or quick effluvia darting through the brain, 
Die of a rose in aromatic pain? 

If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears, 125 

And stunned him with the music of the spheres, 
How would he wish that heav'n had left him still 
The whisp'ring Zephyr, and the purling rill? 
Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 
Alike in what it gives, and what denies ? 130 

Far as Creation's ample range extends, 
The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends : 
Mark how it mounts, to man's imperial race. 
From the green myriads in the peopled grass : 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme, 135 
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam : 
Of smell, the headlong lioness between. 
And hound sagacious on the tainted green : 
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, 
To that which warbles through the. vernal wood ? 140 
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine ! 
Feels at each thread, and lives along the fine : 
In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true 
From pois'nous herbs extracts the heahng dew? 



POPE 269 

How instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, 145 

Compar'd, half-reas'ning elephant, with thine ! 

'Twixt that, and reason, what a nice barrier? 

For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near ! 

Remembrance and reflection, how allied ; 

What thin partitions sense from thought divide? 150 

And middle natures, how they long to join, 

Yet never pass th' insuperable line ! 

Without this just gradation, could they be 

Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 

The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone, 155 

Is not thy reason all these pow'rs in one? 

See, through this air, this ocean, and this earth. 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
Above, how high, progressive hfe may go ! 
Around, how wide, how deep extend below ! 160 

Vast chain of Being ! which from God began, 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man, 
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see. 
No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee. 
From thee to Nothing. — On superior pow'rs 165 

Were we to press, inferior might on ours : 
Or in the full creation leave a void. 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd : 
From Nature's chain whatever link you strike. 
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 170 

And, if each system in gradation roll 
Alike essential to th' amazing whole, 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole must fall. 
Let earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, 175 

Planets and stars run lawless through the sky ; 
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd. 



2/0 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Being on being wreck'd, and world on world ; 
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nod, 
And nature trembles to the throne of God. i8o 

All this dread order break — for whom ? for thee ? 
Vile worm ! — oh madness ! pride ! impiety ! 

What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? 
What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 185 

To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another, in this gen'ral frame : 
Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, 
The great directing mind of all ordains. 190 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body nature is, and God the soiil ; 
That, chang'd through all, and yet in all the same ; 
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame ; 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 195 

Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees. 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent. 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 200 

As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph, that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, one equals all. 

Cease then, nor order imperfection name : 205 

Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, heaven bestows on thee. 
Submit, — In this, or any other sphere. 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 210 



POPE 271 

Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r, 

Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 

All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 

All discord harmony not understood ; 215 

All partial evil, universal good : 

And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. 

One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right. 



ON THE PICTURE OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGU 

The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, 
That happy air of majesty and truth ; 
So would I draw (but oh ! 'tis vain to try, 
My narrow genius does the power deny j) 
The equal lustre of the heavenly mind. 
Where ev'ry grace with every virtue's join'd ; 
Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe, 
With greatness easy, and with wit sincere ; 
With just description show the work divine, 
And the whole princess in my work should shine. 



JAMES THOMSON 

(1700-1748) 

THE SEASONS 

SPRING 

The Coming of the Rain 

At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise, 
Scarce staining ether ; but by fast degrees, 
In heaps on heaps, the doubhng vapour sails 
Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep, 
Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom : 5 

Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, 
Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind. 
And full of every hope and every joy. 
The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze 
Into a perfect calm ; that not a breath 10 

Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, 
Or rustUng turn the many twinkling leaves 
Of aspen tall. The uncurhng floods, diffused 
In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse 
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, 15 

And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks 
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye 
The fallen verdure. Hushed in short suspense. 
The plumy people streak their wings with oil. 
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off; 20 

And wait the approaching sign to strike, at once, 

272 



THOMSON 273 

Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales, 

And forests seem, impatient, to demand 

The promised sweetness. Man superior walks 

Amid the glad creation, musing praise, 25 

And looking lively gratitude. At last. 

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields ; 

And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool 

Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow. 

In large effusion, o'er the freshened world. 30 



SUMMER 

The Sheep^Washing 

Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band, 
They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog 
Compelled, to where the mazy-running brook 
Forms a deep pool ; this bank abrupt and high. 
And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore. 5 

Urged to the giddy brink, much is the toil. 
The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs. 
Ere the soft fearful people to the flood 
Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain. 
On some impatient seizing, hurls them in : 10 

Emboldened then, nor hesitating more. 
Fast, fast, they plunge amid the flashing wave, 
And panting labour to the farthest shore. 
Repeated this, till deep the well-washed fleece 
Has drunk the flood, and from his lively haunt 15 

The trout is banished by the sordid stream, 
Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow 
Slow move the harmless race ; where, as they spread 
Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray, 

T 



274 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Inly disturbed, and wondering what this wild 20 

Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints 

The country fill — and, tossed from rock to rock, 

Incessant bleatings run around the hills. 

At last, of snowy white, the gathered flocks 

Are in the wattled pen, innumerous pressed, 25. 

Head above head ; and ranged in lusty rows 

The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears. 

The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores, 

With all her gay-drest maids attending round. 

One, chief, in gracious dignity enthroned, 30 

Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays 

Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king ; 

While the glad circle round them yield their souls 

To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall. 

Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace : 35 

Some mingling stir the melted tar, and some, 

Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side, 

To stamp his master's cypher ready stand ; 

Others the unwilling wether drag along ; 

And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy 40 

Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram. 

Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft, 

By needy man, that all-depending lord. 

How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies ! 

What softness in its melancholy face, 45 

What dumb complaining innocence appears ! 

Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife 

Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved ; 

No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears, 

Who having now, to pay his annual care, 50 

Borrowed your fleece, to you a cumbrous load, 

Will send you bounding to your hills again. 



THOMSON 275 

AUTUMN 

Sto7'm in Hai'vest 

Defeating oft the labours of the year, 
The sultry south collects a potent blast. 
At first, the groves are scarcely seen to stir 
Their trembling tops, and a still murmur runs 
Along the soft-inclining fields of corn; 5 

But as the aerial tempest fuller swells, 
And in one mighty stream, invisible. 
Immense, the whole excited atmosphere 
Impetuous rushes o'er the sounding world. 
Strained to the root, the stooping forest pours 10 

A rustling shower of yet untimely leaves. 
High-beat, the circling mountains eddy in, 
From the bare wild, the dissipated storm, 
And send it in a torrent down the vale. 
Exposed, and naked, to its utmost rage, 15 

Through all the sea of harvest rolling round, 
The billowy plain floats wide ; nor can evade, 
Though pliant to the blast, its seizing force — 
Or whirled in air, or into vacant chaff 
Shook waste. And sometimes too a burst of rain, 20 
Swept from the black horizon, broad, descends 
In one continuous flood. Still over head 
The mingling tempest weaves its gloom, and still 
The deluge deepens ; till the fields around 
Lie sunk, and flatted, in the sordid wave. 25 

Sudden, the ditches swell ; the meadows swim. 
Red, from the hills, innumerable streams 
Tumultuous roar ; and high above its bank 
The river lift ; before whose rushing tide, 
Herds, flocks, and harvests, cottages, and swains, 30 



2/6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Roll mingled clown : all that the winds had spared, 

In one wild moment- ruined ; the big hopes, 

And well-earned treasures, of the painful year. 

Fled to some eminence, the husbandman, 

Helpless, beholds the miserable wreck 35 

Driving along ; his drowning ox at once 

Descending, with his labours scattered round, 

He sees ; and instant o'er his shivering thought 

Comes Winter unprovided, and a train 

Of clamant children dear. Ye masters, then, 40 

Be mindful of the rough laborious hand 

That sinks you soft in elegance and ease ; 

Be mindful of those hmbs, in russet clad. 

Whose toil to yours is warmth and graceful pride ; 

And, oh, be mindful of that sparing board 45 

Which covers yours with luxury profuse, 

Makes your glass sparkle, and your sense rejoice ! 

Nor cruelly demand what the deep rains 

And all-involving winds have swept away. 



WINTER 

A Snow Scene 

The keener tempests come : and fuming dun 
From all the Hvid east, or piercing north. 
Thick clouds ascend — in whose capacious womb 
A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed. 
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ; 5 

And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. 
Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, 
At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
Fall broad, and white, and fast, dimming the day 



THOMSON 277 

With a continual flow. The cherished fields 10 

Put on their winter-robe of purest white. 

'Tis brightness all ; save where the new snow melts 

Along the mazy current. Low, the woods 

Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun 

Faint from the west emits his evening ray, 15 

Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill. 

Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide 

The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox 

Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands 

The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, 20 

Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around 

The winnowing store, and claim the httle boon 

Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 

The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, 

Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, 25 

In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves 

His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man 

His annual visit. Half afraid, he first 

Against the window beats ; then, brisk, ahghts 

On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the floor, 30 

Eyes all the smiling family askance. 

And pecks, and starts and wonders where he is — 

Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs 

Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds 

Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, 35 

Though timorous of heart, and hard beset 

By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, 

And more unpitying men, the garden seeks. 

Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind 

Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth 40 

With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed. 

Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. 



278 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE 

Book I 

In lowly dale, fast by a river s side, 
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide. 
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 5 

And there a season atween June and May, 
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, 
A Ustless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 

Was nought around but images of rest : 10 

Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; 
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, 
From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green, 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played, 15 
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a luUing murmur made. 

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 20 

And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills. 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 
And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail, 
Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 25 

And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 



THOMSON 279 

Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, 

Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, 30 
As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood ; 
And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro. 
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; 
And where this valley wmded out, below, 35 

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 



A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer-sky : 40 

There eke the soft dehghts, that witchingly 
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast ; 
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh ; 
But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest. 
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. 45 



Straight of these endless numbers, swarming round, 
As thick as idle motes in sunny ray. 
Not one eftsoons in view was to be found, 
But every man strolled off his own glad way ; 
Wide o'er this ample court's blank area, 5° 

With all the lodges that thereto pertained, 
No Hving creature could be seen to stray ; 
While solitude, and perfect silence reigned ; 
So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrained. 



28o FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles, 55 

Placed far amid the melancholy main, 
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles ; 
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
To stand, embodied, to our senses plain) 
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, 60 

The whilst in Ocean Phoebus dips his wain 
A vast assembly moving to and fro, 
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 



Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran 
Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, 65 

And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft began 
(So worked the wizard) wintry storms to swell. 
As heaven and earth they would together mell ; 
At doors and windows threatening seemed to call 
The demons of the tempest, growling fell, 70 

Yet the least entrance found they none at all : 
Whence sweeter grew our sleep secure in massy hall. 



And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams. 
Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace ; 
O'er which were shadowy cast elysian gleams, 75 

That played, in waving lights, from place to place ; 
And shed a roseate smile on nature's face. 
Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, 
So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space ; 
Ne could it e'er such melting forms display. So 

As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 



THOMSON 281 

No, fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
My muse will not attempt your fairy land : 
She has no colours that hke you can glow : 
To catch your vivid scenes" too gross her hand. 85 

But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band 
Than these same guileful angel-seeming sprights, 
Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, 
Poured all the Arabian heaven upon our nights. 
And blest them oft besides with more refined dehghts. 90 



To number up the thousands dwelling here, 
An useless were, and eke an endless task ; 
From kings, and those who at the helm appear, 
To gipsies brown in summer-glades who bask. 
Yea many a man, perdie, I could unmask, 95 

Whose desk and table make a solemn show, 
With tape-ty'd trash, and suits of fools that ask 
For place or pension laid in decent row ; 
But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. 



Of all the gentle tenants of the place, 100 

There was a man of special grave remark ; 
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face. 
Pensive, not sad ; in thought involv'd, not dark ; 
As soot this man could sing as morning lark, 
And teach the noblest morals of the heart ; 105 

But these his talents were yburied stark : — 
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart. 
Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. 



282 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

To noontide shades incontinent he ran, 
Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, 
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, 
Amid the broom he bask'd them on the ground, 
Where the wild thyme and camomile are found ; 
There would he linger, till the latest ray 
Of light fate trembling on the welkin's bound, 
Then homeward thro' the twilight shadows stray. 
Sauntering and slow : so had he passed many a day. 



Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past ; 
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd 
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, 120 

And all its native light anew revealed ; 
Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field. 
And marked the clouds that drove before the wind. 
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, 
Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind : 125 

But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. 



With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk, 
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke) 
One shyer still, who quite detested talk ; 
Oft stung by spleen, at once away he broke, 130 

To groves of pine and broad o'ershadowing oak; 
There inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone. 
And on himself his pensive fury wroke, 
Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone 
The glittering star of eve, — ' Thank Heaven ! the day is 135 
done.' 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

(1709-1784) 

PREFACE TO SHAKESPEARE 

Shake s pe aj'e' s G?'eatness 

The work of a correct and regular writer is a garden 
accurately formed and diligently planted, varied with 
shades, and scented with flowers; the composition of 
Shakespeare is a forest, in which oaks extend their 
branches, and pines tower in the air, interspersed some- 5 
times with weeds and brambles, and sometimes giving 
shelter to myrtles and to roses; filling the eye with awful 
pomp, and gratifying the mind with endless diversity. 
Other poets display cabinets of precious rarities, 
minutely finished, wrought into shape, and polished into 10 
brightness. Shakespeare opens a mine which contains 
gold and diamonds in unexhaustible plenty, though 
clouded by incrustations, debased by impurities, and 
mingled with a mass of meaner materials. . . . 

That much knowledge is scattered over his works is 15 
very justly observed by Pope; but it is often such knowl- 
edge as books did not supply. He that will understand 
Shakespeare, must not be content to study him in the 
closet; he must look for his meaning sometimes among 
the sports of the field, and sometimes among the manu- 20 
factures of the shop. 

There is, however, proof enough that he was a very 
diligent reader, nor was our language then so indigent 

283 



284 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

of books, but that he might very liberally indulge his 
curiosity without excursion into foreign literature. 25 
Many of the Roman authors were translated, and some 
of the Greek; the Reformation had filled the kingdom 
with theological learning; most of the topicks of human 
disquisition had found English writers; and poetry had 
been cultivated, not only with diligence, but success. 30 
This was a stock of knowledge sufficient for a mind so 
capable of appropriating and improving it. 

But the greater part of his excellence was the product 
of his own genius. He found the English stage in a state 
of the utmost rudeness; no essays either in tragedy or 35 
comedy had appeared from which it could be discovered 
to what degree of delight either one or other might be 
carried. Neither character nor dialogue were yet under- 
stood. Shakespeare may be truly said to have intro- 
duced them both amongst us, and in some of his happier 40 
scenes to have carried them both to the utmost height. 

By what gradations of improvement he proceeded, is 
not easily known; for the chronology of his works is yet 
unsettled. Rowe is of opinion that " perhaps we are not 
to look for his beginning, like those of other writers, in 45 
his least perfect works; art had so little, and nature so 
large a share in what he did that for aught I know," says 
he, ^' the performances of his youth, as they were the 
most vigorous, were the best." 

But the power of nature is only the power of using to 50 
any certain purpose the materials which diligence pro- 
cures, or opportunity supplies. Nature gives no man 
knowledge, and, when images are collected by study and 
experience, can only assist in combining or applying 
them. Shakespeare, however favoured by nature, could 55 
impart only what he had learned; and as he must in- 



JOHNSON 285 

crease his ideas, like other mortals, by gradual acquisi- 
tion, he, like them, grew wiser as he grew older, could 
display life better, as he knew it more, and instruct with 
more efficacy, as he was himself more amply instructed. 60 

There is a vigilance of observation and accuracy of 
distinction which books and precepts cannot confer; 
from this almost all original and native excellence pro- 
ceeds. Shakespeare must have looked upon mankind 
with perspicacity, in the highest degree curious and at- 65 
tentive. Other writers borrow their characters from 
preceding writers, and diversify them only by the acci- 
dental appendages of present manners; the dress is a 
little varied, but the body is the same. Our author had 
both matter and form to provide; for, except the char- 70 
acters of Chaucer, to whom I think, he is not much in- 
debted, there were no writers in English, and perhaps 
not many in other modern languages, which showed life 
in its native colours. 

The contest about the original benevolence or malig- 75 
nity of man had not yet commenced. Speculation had 
not yet attempted to analyse the mind, to trace the pas- 
sions to their sources, to unfold the seminal principles of 
vice and virtue, or sound the depths of the heart for the 
motives of action. All those enquiries, which from that 80 
time that human nature became the fashionable study, 
have been made sometimes with nice discernment, but 
often with idle subtility, were yet unattempted. The 
tales with which the infancy of learning was satisfied, 
exhibited only the superficial appearances of action, re- 85 
lated the events, but omitted the causes, and were formed 
for such as delighted in wonders rather than in truth. 
Mankind was not then to be studied in the closet; he 
that would know the world, was under the necessity of 



286 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

gleaning his own remarks by mingling as he could in its 90 
business and amusements. 

Boyle congratulated himself upon his high birth, be- 
cause it favoured his curiosity by facilitating his access. 
Shakespeare had no such advantage; he came to London 
a needy adventurer, and lived for a time by very mean 95 
employments. Many works of genius and learning have 
been performed in states of life that appear very little 
favourable to thought or to enquiry; so many, that he 
who considers them is inclined to think that he sees en- 
terprise and perseverance predominating over all external 100 
agency, and bidding help and hindrance vanish before 
them. The genius of Shakespeare was not to be de- 
pressed by the weight of poverty, nor limited by the 
narrow conversation to which men in want are inevitably 
condemned; the incumbrances of his fortune were shaken 105 
from his mind, "as dew drops from a lion's mane." 

Though he had so many dif^culties to encounter, and 
so little assistance to surmount them, he has been able 
to obtain an exact knowledge of many modes of life, and 
many casts of native dispositions; to vary them with no 
great multiplicity; to mark them by nice distinctions; 
and to show them in full view by proper combinations. 
In this part of his performances he had none to imitate, 
but has been himself imitated by all succeeding writers; 
and it may be doubted whether from all his successours 115 
more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules of 
practical prudence, can be collected, than he alone has 
given to his country. 

Nor was his attention confined to the actions of men; 
he was an exact surveyor of the inanimate world; his 120 
descriptions have always some peculiarities, gathered 
by contemplating things as they really exist. It may be 



JOHNSON 287 

observed that the oldest poets of many nations preserve 
their reputation, and that the following generations of 
wit, after a short celebrity, sink into oblivion. The 125 
first, whoever they be, must take their sentiments and 
descriptions immediately from knowledge; the resem- 
blance is therefore just, their descriptions are verified 
by every eye, and their sentiments acknowledged by 
every breast. Those whom their fame invites to the 130 
same studies copy partly them, and partly nature, till 
the books of one age gain such authority as to stand in 
the place of nature to another, and imitation, always 
deviating a little, becomes at last capricious and casual. 
Shakespeare, whether life or nature be his subject, shows 135 
plainly that he has seen with his own eyes; he gives the 
image which he receives, not weakened or distorted by 
the intervention of any other mind; the ignorant feel 
his representations to be just, and the learned see that 
they are complete. 1^0 

Perhaps it would not be easy to find any author, ex- 
cept Homer, who invented so much as Shakespeare, who 
so much advanced the studies which he cultivated, or 
effused so much novelty upon his age or country. The 
form, the characters, the language, and the shows of the 145 
English drama are his. "He seems," says Dennis, "to 
have been the very original of our English tragical har- 
mony, that is, the harmony of blank verse, diversified 
often by dissyllable and trissyllable terminations. For 
the diversity distinguishes it from heroick harmony, and 150 
by bringing it nearer to common use makes it more proper 
to gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue. 
Such verse we make when we are writing prose; we make 
such verse in common conversation." 

I know not whether this praise is rigorously just. The 155 



288 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

dissyllable termination, which the critick rightly appro- 
priates to the drama, is to be found, though, I think, not 
in Gorbodiic, which is confessedly before our author; 
yet in Hieronymo, of which the date is not certain, but 
which there is reason to believe at least as old as his i6o 
earliest plays. This however is certain, that he is the 
first who taught either tragedy or comedy to please, 
there being no theatrical piece of any older writer, of 
which the name is known except to antiquaries and col- 
lectors of books, which are sought because they are 165 
scarce, and would not have been scarce had they been 
much esteemed. 

To him we must ascribe the praise, uriless Spenser 
may divide it with him, of having first discovered to 
how much smoothness and* harmony the English Ian- 170 
guage could be softened. He has speeches, perhaps 
sometimes scenes, which have all the delicacy of Rowe, 
without his effeminacy. He endeavours indeed com- 
monly to strike by the force and vigour of his dialogue, 
but he never executes his purpose better than when he 175 
tries to soothe by softness. 

Yet it must be at last confessed that, as we owe every- 
thing to him, he owes something to us; that, if much of 
his praise is paid by perception and judgment, much is 
likewise given by custom and veneration. We fix our 180 
eyes upon his graces, and turn them from his deformi- 
ties, and endure in him what we should in another loathe 
or despise. If we endured without praising, respect for 
the father of our drama might excuse us; but I have seen, 
in the book of some modern critick, a collection of 185 
anomalies, which show that he has corrupted language by 
every mode of depravation, but which his admirer has 
accumulated as a monument of honour. 



JOHNSON 289 

He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence; 
but perhaps not one play, which, if it were now exhibited 190 
as the work of a contemporary writer, would be heard to 
the conclusion. I am, indeed, far from thinking that 
his works were wrought to his own ideas of perfection; 
when they were such as would satisfy the audience, they 
satisfied the writer. It is seldom that authors, though 195 
more studious of fame than Shakespeare, rise much 
above the standard of their own age; to add a little to 
what is best will always be sufBcient for present praise, 
and those who find themselves exalted into fame, are will- 
ing to credit their encomiasts, and to spare the labour of 200 
contending with themselves. 

It does not appear that Shakespeare thought his works 
worthy of posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon 
future times, or had any further prospect than of present 
popularity and present profit. When his plays had been 205 
acted, his hope was at an end; he solicited no addition 
of honour from the reader. He therefore made no 
scruple to repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to 
entangle different plots by the same knot of perplexity; 
which may be at least forgiven him by those who recol- 210 
lect, that of Congreve's four comedies, two are concluded 
by a marriage in a mask, by a deception, which perhaps 
never happened, and which, whether likely or not, he 
did not invent. 

So careless was this great poet of future fame that, 215 
though he retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet 
little "declined into the vale of years," before he could 
be disgusted with fatigue, or disabled by infirmity, he 
made no collection of his works, nor desired to rescue 
those that had been already published from the deprava- 220 
tions that obscured them, or secure to the rest a better 
u 



290 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

destiny, by giving them to the world in their genuine 
state. 

Of the plays which bear the name of Shakespeare in 
the late editions, the greater part were not published 225 
till about seven years after his death; and the few 
which appeared in his life are apparently thrust into 
the world without the care of the author, and there- 
fore probably without his knowledge. 



LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD 

My Lord : I have lately been informed by the proprie- 
tor of The IVoi'ld that two papers in which my Dic- 
tionary is recommended to the public were written by 
your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honor which, 
being very little accustomed to favors from the great, I 5 
know not well how to receive, or in what terms to 
acknowledge. 

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited 
your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of man- 
kind, by the enchantment of your address, and could 10 
not forbear to wish that I might boast myself le vain- 
qiieui' du vainquciir de la terre — that I might obtain that 
regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found 
my attendance so little encouraged that neither pride nor 
modesty would suffer me to continue it. When once I 15 
had addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted 
all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly 
scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; and no 
man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever 
so little. • 20 



JOHNSON 291 

Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited 
in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; 
during which time I have been pushing on my work 
through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, 
and have brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, 25 
without one act of assistance, one word of encourage- 
ment, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not 
expect, for I never had a patron before. 

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with 
Love, and found him a native of the rocks. 30 

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with uncon- 
cern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when 
he has reached the ground, encumbers him with help? 
The notice which you have been pleased to take of my 
labors, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been 35 
delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I 
am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and 
do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity, not 
to confess obligations when no benefit has been received, 
or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as 40 
owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled 
me to do for myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far with so little ob- 
ligation to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disap- 
pointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, 45 
with less; for I have long been wakened from that dream 
of hope in which I once boasted myself with so much 
exultation, my lord. 

Your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, 

Samuel Johnson. 50 



THOMAS GRAY 

(1716-1771) 

ODE ON THE SPRING 

Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, 

Fair Venus' train, appear, 
Disclose the long-expecting flowers, 

And wake the purple year ! 
The Attic warbler pours her throat, 5 

Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 

The untaught harmony of spring : 
While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky 

Their gathered -fragrance fling. to 

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 

A broader browner shade. 
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 

O'er-canopies the glade. 
Beside some water's rushy brink . 15 

With me the Muse shall sit, and think 

(At ease reclined in rustic state) 
How vain the ardour of the crowd, 
How low, how little are the proud. 

How indigent the great ! 20 

292 



G/^AV 



293 



Still is the toiling hand of Care ; 

The panting herds repose : 
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 

The busy murmur glows ! 
The insect-youth are on the wing, 25 

Eager to taste the honied spring. 

And float amid the hquid noon : 
Some lightly o'er the current skim. 
Some shew their gayly-gilded trim 

Quick-glancing to the sun. 30 

To Contemplation's sober eye 

Such is the race of Man : 
And they that creep, and they that fly, 

Shall end where they began. 
Alike the Busy and the Gay 35 

But flutter thro' life's little day, 

In Fortune's varying colours drest : 
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance, 
Or chilled by Age, their airy dance 

They leave, in dust to rest. 40 

Methinks I hear, in accents low, 

The sportive kind reply : 
Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? 

A solitary fly ! 
Thy joys no glittering female meets, 45 

No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 

No painted plumage to display : 
On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 

We frolic while 'tis May. 50 



294 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 

That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye, that from the stately brow 5 

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below 

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
Wanders the hoary Thames along 

His silver- winding way : lo 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to pain ! 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 15 

A momentary bliss bestow. 

As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
My weary soul they seem to soothe. 
And, redolent of joy and youth, 

To breathe a second spring. 20 

> Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace ; 
Who foremost now delight to cleave, 25 

With phant arm, thy glassy wave ? 

The captive hnnet which enthral ! 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed. 

Or urge the flying ball? 30 



GJ?AV 



295 



While some on earnest business bent 

Their murmuring labours ply 
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty : 
Some bold adventurers disdain 35 

The limits of their httle reign, 

And unknown regions dare descry : 
Still as they run they look behind, 
They hear a voice in every wind, 

And snatch a fearful joy. 40 

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed. 

Less pleasing when possest ; 
The tear forgot as soon as shed, 

The sunshine of the breast : 
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 45 

Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And lively cheer, of vigour born ; 
The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 

That fly th' approach of morn. 50 

Alas ! regardless of their doom 

The little victims play ; 
No sense have they of ills to come, 

Nor care beyond to-day : 
Yet see, how all around them wait 55 

The ministers of human fate, 

And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
Ah, show them where in ambush stand. 
To seize their prey, the murderous band ! 

Ah, tell them, they are men ! 60 



296 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

These shall the fury Passions tear, 

The vultures of the mind, 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame that skulks behind ; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65 

Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth. 

That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, 

And Sorrow's piercing dart. 70 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high. 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 
. And grinning Infamy. 

The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 75 

And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 

That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
iVnd moody Madness laughing wild 

Amid severest woe. 80 

Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A griesly troop are seen. 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85 

That every labouring sinew strains, 

Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band. 
That numbs the soul with icy hand. 

And slow-consuming Age. 9° 



GRA V 297 

To each his suffermgs : all are men, 

Condemn'd alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, 95 

Since sorrow never comes too late. 

And happiness too swiftly flies? 
Thought would destroy their paradise. 
No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 

'Tis folly to be wise. 100 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 

The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



298 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to hsp their sire's return, 
Or cHmb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 30 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 

The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 

Await alike the inevitable hour. 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 



35 



Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The peahng anthem swells the note of praise. 40 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 



GJ^AY 



299 



Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed 
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 50 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 

The httle tyrant of his fields withstood. 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 

The applause of listening senates to command. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smihng land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 65 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 



300 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 75 

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 85 

This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul reHes, 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 90 

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries. 
E'en in our ashes Uve their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, , 95 

Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 



GRAY 301 

' There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His hstless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woful-wan, hke one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

' One morn I missed him on the customed hill. 

Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ; no 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 

' The next, with dirges due in sad array 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne : — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' 



The Epitaph 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair science frowned not on his humble birth. 
And melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 



302 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



MILTON 



Nor second he that rode sublime 
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 
The secret of th' abyss to spy. 
He passed the flaming bounds of place and time 
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze. 
Where angels tremble, while they gaze, 
He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light, 
Closed his eyes in endless night. 



JOURNAL IN THE LAKES 

From Kesivick to Kendal 

October 8th. Bid farewell to Keswick and took the 
Ambleside road in a gloomy morning ; wind east and 
afterwards north east ; about two miles from the town 
mounted an eminence called Castle Rigg, and the sun 
breaking out discovered the most beautiful view I have 
yet seen of the whole valley behind me, the two lakes, 
the river, the mountain, all in their glory ! had almost a 
mind to have gone back again. The road in some little 
patches is not completed, but good country road through 



GRA V 303 

sound, but narrow and stony lanes, very safe in broad 10 
daylight. This is the case about Caiiseway-foot, and 
among Naddk-feUs to Lanthwaite. The vale you go 
in has little breadth, the mountains are vast and rocky, 
the fields little and poor, and the inhabitants are now 
making hay, and see not the sun by two hours in a day 15 
so long as at Keswick. Came to the foot of Helvellyn, 
along which runs an excellent road, looking down from a 
little height on Lee's-water, (called also Thirlmeer, or 
Wiborn-water) and soon descending on its margin. The 
lake from its depth looks black, (though really as clear 20 
as glass) and from the gloom of the vast crags, that scowl 
over it : it is narrow and about three miles long, resem- 
bling a river in its course ; httle shining torrents hurry 
down the rocks to join it, with not a bush to overshadow 
them, or cover their march : all is rock and loose stones 25 
up to the very brow, which lies so near your way, that not 
above half the height of Helvellyn can be seen. (To be 
continued, but now we have not franks.) 

Past by the little chapel of Wiboni, out of which the 
Sunday congregation were then issuing. Past a beck near 30 
Dimmail-raise and entered Westmoreland a second time, 
nowbegin to see Z^'i?/;;?-^:/'*^^ distinguished from its rugged 
neighbours not so much by its height, as by the strange 
broken outline of its top, Hke some gigantic building 
demolished, and the stones that composed it flung across 35 
each other in wild confusion. Just beyond it opens one 
of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imi- 
tate. The bosom of the mountains spreading here into a 
broad bason discovers in the midst Gi-asinei-e-water ; its 
margin is hollowed into small bays with bold eminences : 40 
some of them rocks, some of soft turf that half conceal 
and vary the figure of the little lake they command. 



304 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

From the shore a low promontory pushes itself far into 
the water, and on it stands a white village with the parish- 
church rising in the midst of it, hanging enclosures, corn- 45 
fields, and meadows green as an emerald, with their trees 
and hedges, and cattle fill up the whole space from the 
edge of the water. Just opposite to you is a large farm- 
house at the bottom of a steep smooth lawn embosomed 
in old woods, which climb half way up the mountain's 50 
side, and discover above them a broken line of crags, 
that crown the scene. Not a single red tile, no flaming 
gentleman's house, or garden walks break in upon the 
repose of this little unsuspected paradise, but all is peace, 
rusticity, and happy poverty in its neatest, most becoming 55 
attire. 

The road winds here over Grasinere-hill, whose rocks 
soon conceal the water from your sight, yet it is con- 
tinued along behind them, and contracting itself to a 
river communicates with Ridale -water, another small 60 
lake, but of inferior size and beauty ; it seems shallow 
too, for large patches of reeds appear pretty far within 
it. Into this vale the road descends : on the opposite 
banks large and ancient woods mount up the hills, and 
just to the left of our way stands Ridale-hall, the family 65 
seat of Sir Mic. Fleming, but now a farm-house, a large 
old fashioned fabric surrounded with wood, and not much 
too good for its present destination. Sir Michael is now ~ 
on his travels, and all this timber far and wide belongs to 
him. I tremble for it when he returns. Near the house ^o 
rises a huge crag called Ridale-head, which is said to 
command a full view of Wynander-inere , and I doubt it 
not, for within a mile that great lake is visible even from 
the road. As to going up the crag, one might as well 
go up Skiddaw. 75 



WILLIAM COLLINS 

(1721-1759) 

ODE TO LIBERTY 

Strophe 

Who shall awake the Spartan fife, 

And call in solemn sounds to life, 
The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, 

Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue, 
At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, 5 

Applauding freedom loved of old to view? 
What new Alcseus, fancy-blest, 
Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest, 

At wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing, 
(What place so fit to seal a deed renowned ?) 10 

Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing, 
It leaped in glory forth and dealt her prompted wound ! 
O goddess, in that feeling hour. 
When most its sounds would court thy ears, 

Let not my. shell's misguided power 15 

E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. 
No, freedom, no, I will not tell 
How Rome, before thy weeping face, 
With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell, 
Pushed by a wild and artless race • 20 

From off its wide ambitious base, 
X 305 



306 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

When time his northern sons of spoil awoke, 

And all the blended work of strength and grace, 
With many a rude repeated stroke, 

And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke. 25 

Epode 

* 
Yet, even where'er the least appeared. 

The admiring world thy hand revered; 

Still 'midst the scattered states around, 

Some remnants of her strength were found; 

They saw, by what escaped the storm, 30 

How wondrous rose her perfect form; 

How in the great, the laboured whole, 

Each mighty master poured his soul ! 

For sunny Florence, seat of art. 

Beneath her vines preserved a part, 35 

Till they, whom science loved to name, 

(O who could fear it?) quenched her flame. 

And lo, an humbler relic laid 

In jealous Pisa's olive shade! 

See small Marino joins the theme, 40 

Though least, not last in thy esteem : 

Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings 

To those, whose merchant sons were kings; 

To him, who, decked with pearly pride, 

In Adria weds his green-haired bride; 45 

Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure. 

Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure: 

Nor e'er her former pride relate. 

To sad Liguria's bleeding state. 

Ah no ! more pleased thy haunts I seek 50 

On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak: 



COLLINS 



307 



(Where, when the favoured of thy choice, 

The daring archer heard thy voice; 

Forth from his eyrie roused in dread 

The ravening eagle northward fled;) 55 

Or dwell in willowed meads more near 

With those to whom the stork is dear: 

Those whom the rod of Alva bruised, 

Whose crown a British queen refused ! 

The magic works, thou feel'st the strains, 60 

One holier name alone remains; 

The perfect spell shall then avail, 

Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail ! 

Antistrophe 

Beyond the measure vast of thought, 
The works the wizard time has wrought ! 65 

The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story. 
Saw Britain linked to his now adverse strand, 

No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary. 
He passed with unwet feet through all our land. 

To the blown Baltic then, they say, 70 

The wild waves found another way. 
Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; 

Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, 
A wide wild storm even nature's self confounding. 

Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise, 75 
This pillared earth so firm and wide. 
By winds and inward labours torn. 
In thunders dread was pushed aside, 

And down the shouldering billows borne. 
And see, like gems, her laughing train, 80 

The little isles on every side. 



308 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Mona, once hid from those who search the main, 

Where thousand elfin shapes abide, 
And Wight who checks the westering tide, 

For thee consenting heaven has each bestowed, 85 

A fair attendant on her sovereign pride : 

To thee this blest divorce she owed. 
For thou hast made her vales thy loved, thy last abode. 

Second Epode 

Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, 

'Midst the green navel of our isle, 90 

Thy shrine in some religious wood, 

O soul-enforcing goddess, stood ! 

There oft the painted native's feet 

Were wont thy form celestial meet : 

Though now with hopeless toil we trace 95 

Time's backward rolls, to find its place; 

Whether the fiery-tressed Dane, 

Or Roman's self, o'erturned the fane, 

Or in what heaven-left age it fell, 

'Twere hard for modern song to tell. 100 

Yet still, if truth those beams infuse, 

Which guide at once, and charm the muse, 

Beyond yon braided clouds that lie, 

Paving the light-embroidered sky. 

Amidst the bright pavilioned plains, 105 

The beauteous model still remains. 

There, happier than in islands blest, 

Or bowers by spring or Hebe drest. 

The chiefs who fill our Albion's story. 

In warlike weeds, retired in glory, no 

Hear their consorted Druids sing 



COLLINS 309 

Their triumphs to the immortal string. 

How may the poet now unfold 
What never tongue or numbers told ? 
How learn, delighted and amazed, 115 

What hands unknown that fabric raised? 
Even now before his favoured eyes, 
In Gothic pride, it seems to rise ! 
Yet Graecia's graceful orders join, 
Majestic through the mixed design: 120 

The secret builder new to choose 
Each sphere-found gem of richest hues; 
Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains, 
When nearer suns emblaze its veins; 
There on the walls the patriot's sight 125 

May ever hang with fresh delight, 
And, graved with some prophetic rage, 
Read Albion's fame through every age. 

Ye forms divine, ye laureat band. 
That near her inmost altar stand ! 130 

Now soothe her to her blissful train 
Blithe concord's social form to gain; 
Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep 
Even anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep; 
Before whose breathing bosom's balm 135 

Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm; 
Her let our sires and matrons hoar 
Welcome to Britain's ravaged shore; 
Our youths, enamoured of the fair, 
Play with the tangles of her hair, 140 

Till, in one loud applauding sound, 
The nations shout to her around, 
O how supremely art thou blest, 
Thou, lady, thou shalt rule the west ! 



3IO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ODE TO EVENING 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

May hope, chaste eve to soothe thy modest ear, 

Like thy own solemn springs. 

Thy springs, and dying gales, 

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun 5 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede ethereal wove, 

O'erhang his wavy bed: 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 

With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing; 10 

Or where the beetle winds 

His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: 

Now teach me, maid composed, 15 

To breathe some softened strain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit, 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial loved return ! 20 

For when thy folding star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 

The fragrant hours, and elves 

W^ho slept in flowers the day, 



COLLINS 



311 



And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge 25 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, 

The pensive pleasures sweet 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then leap, calm votaress, where some sheety lake 

Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile, 30 

Or upland fallows grey 

Reflect its last cool gleam. 

But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut, 

That from the mountain's side, 35 

Views wilds, and swelling flood. 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw 

The gradual dusky veil. 40 

While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest eve! 

While summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering lightj 

While sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 45 

Or winter, yelling through the troublous air, 

Affrights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes; 

So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, 

Shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipped health, 5c 

Thy gentlest influence own. 

And hymn thy favourite name ! 



312 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON 

In yonder grave a druid lies, 

Where slowly winds the stealing wave; 

The year's best sweets shall duteous rise 
To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 5 

His airy harp shall now be laid, 
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, 

May love through life the soothing shade. 

Then maids and youths shall linger here, 

And, while its sounds at distance swell, lo 

Shall sadly seem in pity's ear 

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
Ayhen Thames in summer wreaths is drest. 

And oft suspend the dashing oar, 15 

To bid his gentle spirit rest! 

And oft, as ease and health retire 

To breezy lawn, or forest deep. 
The friend shall view yon whitening spire, 

And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 20 

But thou, who own' St that earthly bed, 

Ah! what will every dirge avail; 
Or tears, which love and pity shed, 

That mourn beneath the gliding sail? 



COLLINS 313 

Yet lives there one whose heedless eye 25 

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? 

With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, 
And joy desert the blooming year. 

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 

No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, 30 

Now waft me from the green hill's side, 
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! 

And see — the fairy valleys fade; 

Dun night has veiled the solemn view! 
Yet once again, dear parted shade, 35 

Meek nature's child, again adieu! 

The genial meads, assigned to bless 
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; 

Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress, 

With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 40 

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: 
O vales and wild woods ! shall he say, 

In yonder grave your druid lies! 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

(1728-1774) 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE 
Contrasts 

Sweet was the sound when oft, at evening's close. 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 
There as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below; 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 5 

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school. 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 10 

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail. 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway treadj 15 

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
All biit yon widowed, solitary thing 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring: 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 20 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 

314 



GOLDSMITH 315 

She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 25 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 30 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; 
"Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power. 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 35 

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain: 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 40 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, 
Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, 45 

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 50 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 55 



3l6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 60 

The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 65 

His looks adorned the venerable place : 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 70 

Even children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed: 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 75 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. So 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay. 
There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view; 85 

. I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 



GOLDSMITH 317 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 90 

Full well the busy whisper circling round 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 

The love he bore to learning was in fault; 

The village all declared how much he knew; 95 

'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; 

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge: 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill; 

For e'en though vanquished he could argue still; 100 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 105 

Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. 
Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, no 

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendor of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor, 115 

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 120 

The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 



3l8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; 
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 125 

Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care; ip 

No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 135 

Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be pressed, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 



RETALIATION 

Edmund Burke 

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such. 
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much; 
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, 5 
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote : 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; 10 



GOLDSMITH 



319 



For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

David Garrick 

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can. 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; 
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine : 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line: 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 5 

The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread. 
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. 
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. 10 

With no reason on earth to go out of his way. 
He turned and he varied full ten times a day: 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 15 

For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came. 
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
Who peppered the highest, was surest to please. 20 

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, 
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave 1 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shout that you raised, 25 
While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised ! 



320 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 

To act as an angel and mix with the skies: 

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill. 

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will. 

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, 

And Beamiionts and Bens be his Kellys above. 

Sh' Joshua Reynolds 

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind; 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; 
Still born to improve us in every part. 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 

hearing, 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff. 



STANZAS ON WOMAN 

When lovely Woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy. 
What art can wash her guilt away? 

The only art her guilt to cover. 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom, is ■ — to die. 



GOLDSMITH 321 

THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

A Country Parsonage 

A proof that even the hiinihlest fortune may grant happiness, which 
depends not on circumstances, but constitution 

The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, 
consisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, 
and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. 
As they had almost all the conveniences of life within 
themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities, in search 5 
of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still re- 
tained the primeval simplicity of manners; and frugal 
by habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a 
virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of 
labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness 10 
and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent 
true-love-knots on Valentine morning, eat pancakes on 
Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first of April, and 
religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being ap- 
prized of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came 15 
out to meet their minister, drest in their finest cloaths, 
and preceded by a pipe and tabor : A feast also was 
provided for our reception, at which we sate cheerfully 
down; and what the conversation wanted in wit, was 
made up in laughter. 20 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a slop- 
ing hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, 
and a prattling river before : on one side a meadow, on 
the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty 
acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound 25 
for my predecessor's goodwill. Nothing could exceed 
the neatness of my little enclosures; the elms and hedge- 

Y 



322 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house 
consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, 
which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the 30 
inside were nicely white-washed, and my daughters un- 
dertook to adorn them with pictures of their own design- 
ing. Though the same room served us for parlour and 
kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it ' 
was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, 35 
and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in 
bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, 
and did not want richer furniture. There were three 
other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for 
our two daughters, within our own, and the third, with 40 
two beds, for the rest of the children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated 
in the following manner; by sun-rise we all assembled 
in our common apartment; the fire being previously kin- 
dled by the servant. After we had saluted each other 45 
with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep 
up some mechanical forms of good breeding, without 
which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in 
gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This 
duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our 50 
usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters em- 
ployed themselves in providing breakfast, which was 
always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour 
for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was 
taken up in innocent mirth between my wife and 55 
daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my 
son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our 
labours after it was gone down, but returned home to 
the expecting family; where smiling looks, a neat 60 



GOLDSMITH 323 

hearth, and pleasant fire were prepared for our recep- 
tion. Nor were we without guests : sometimes farmer 
Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the 
blind piper would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- 
berry wine; for the making of which we had lost neither 65 
the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people 
had several ways of being good company; while one 
played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, 
Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the cruelty of 
Barbary Allen. The night was concluded in the manner 70 
we began the morning, my youngest boys being ap- 
pointed to read the lessons of the day, and he that read 
loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have an halfpenny 
on Sunday to put in the poor's box. 

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, 75 
which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How 
well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had con- 
quered the vanity of my daughters; yet I still found them 
secretly attached to all their former finery: they still 
loved laces, ribbands, bugles, and catgut; my wife her- 80 
self retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, 
because I formerly happened to say it became her. 

The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served 
to mortify me : I had desired my girls the preceding 
night to be drest early the next day; for I always loved S5 
to be at church a good while before the rest of' the con- 
gregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but 
when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, 
down came my wife and daughters, drest out all in their 
former splendour; their hair plastered up with poma- 90 
tum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled 
up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I 
could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that 



324 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. 
In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to 95 
order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. 
The girls were amazed at the command; but I repeated 

it with more solemnity than before. "Surely, my 

"dear, you jest," cried my wife, "we can walk it per- 
"fectly well: we want no coach to carry us now."- — 100 
"You mistake, child," returned I, "we do want a 
"coach; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very 
"children in the parish will hoot after us." — "Indeed," 
replied my wife, "I always imagined that my Charles 
"was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome 105 
"about him." — "You maybe as neat as you please," 
interrupted I, "and I shall love you the better for it; 
"but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These ruf- 
" flings, and pinkings, and patchings will only make us 
"hated by all the wives of all our neighbours. No, my no 
"children," continued I more gravely, " those gowns may 
"be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery 
" is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of 
" decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and 
"shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, 115 
"upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the 
" indigent world may be cloathed from the trimmings of 
"the vain." 

This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went 
with great composure, that very instant, to change their 120 
dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of find- 
ing my daughters, at their own request, employed in 
cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick 
and Bill, the two little ones, and what was still more 
satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this cur- 125 
tailing. 



EDMUND BURKE 

(1729-1797) 

SPEECH ON AMERICAN TAXATION 

Lord Chatham 

I HAVE done with the third period of your policy 
— that of your repeal and the return of your ancient 
system and your ancient tranquillity and concord. Sir, 
this period was not as long as it was happy. Another 
scene was opened, and other actors appeared on the stage. 5 
The state, in the condition 1 have described it, was deliv- 
ered into the hands of Lord Chatham — a great and cele- 
brated name ; a name that keeps the name of this country 
respectable in every other on the globe. It may be truly 
called, 

" Clarum et venerabile nomen 10 

Gentibus, multum et nostrae quod proderat urbi." 

Sir, the venerable age of this great man, his merited 
rank, his superior eloquence, his splendid qualities, his 
eminent services, the vast space he fills in the eye of 
mankind; and, more than all the rest, his fall from 15 
power — which, like death, canonizes and sanctifies a 
great character ^ — -will not suffer me to censure any part 
of his conduct I am afraid to flatter him; I am sure 
I am not disposed to blame him. Let those who have 
betrayed him by their adulation insult him with their 20 
malevolence. But what I do not presume to censure I 

325 



326 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

may have leave to lament. For a wise man he seemed 
to me at that time to be governed too much by general 
maxims. I speak with the freedom of history, and, I 
hope, without offence. One or two of these maxims, 25 
flowing from an opinion not the most indulgent to our 
unhappy species, and surely a little too general, led him 
into measures that were greatly mischievous to himself, 
and for that reason, among others, perhaps fatal to his 
country — measures the effects of which, I am afraid, 30 
are forever incurable. 

He made an administration so checkered and speckled, 
he put together a piece of joinery so crossly indented 
and whimsically dovetailed, a cabinet so variously in- 
laid, such a piece of diversified mosaic, such a tessel- 35 
lated pavement without cement — here a bit of black 
stone and there a bit of white, patriots and courtiers, 
king's friends and republicans, Whigs and Tories, 
treacherous friends and open enemies — that it was, 
indeed, a very curious show, but utterly unsafe to touch 40 
and unsure to stand on. The colleagues whom he had 
assorted at the same boards stared at each other, and 
were obliged to ask, "Sir, your name?" — "Sir, you 
have the advantage of me." — "Mr. Such-a-one." — ^"I 
beg a thousand pardons." I venture to say, it did so 45 
happen that persons had a single office divided between 
them who had never spoken to each other in their lives 
until they found themselves, they knew not how, pigging 
together, heads and points, in the same truckle-bed. 

Sir, in consequence of this arrangement, having put 50 
so much the larger part of his enemies and opposers 
into power, the confusion was such that his own princi- 
ples could not possibly have any effect or influence in 
the conduct of affairs. If ever he fell into a fit of the 



BURKE 327 

gout, or if any other cause withdrew him from public 55 
cares, principles directly the contrary were sure to pre- 
dominate. When he had executed his plan, he had not 
an inch of ground to stand upon. When he had accom- 
plished his- scheme of administration, he was no longer 
minister. 60 

When his face was hid but for a moment, his whole 
system was on a wide sea without chart or compass. 
The gentlemen, his particular friends, who, with the 
names of various departments of ministry, were admitted 
to seem as if they acted a part under him, with a mod- 65 
esty that becomes all men, and with a confidence in 
him which was justified even in its extravagance by his 
superior abilities, had never in any instance presumed 
upon any opinion of their own. Deprived of his guid- 
ing influence, they were whirled about, the sport of every 70 
gust, and easily driven into any port; and as those who 
joined with them in manning the vessel were the most 
directly opposite to his opinions, measures, and charac- 
ter, and far the most artful and most powerful of the set, 
they easily prevailed, so as to seize upon the vacant, 75 
unoccupied, and derelict minds of his friends; and in- 
stantly they turned the vessel wholly out of the course of 
his policy. As if it were to insult as well as to betray 
him, even long before the close of the first session of 
his administration, when everything was publicly trans- 80 
acted, and with great parade, in his name, they made 
an act declaring it highly just and expedient to raise a 
revenue in America. For even then, sir, even before 
this splendid orb was entirely set, and while the western 
horizon was in a blaze with his descending glory, on the 85 
opposite quarter of the heavens arose another luminary, 
and, for his hour, became lord of the ascendant. 



328 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA 
Charade?' of the Ainej'icans 

These, Sir, are my reasons for not entertaining that 
high opinion of untried force, by which many gentlemen, 
for whose sentiments in other particulars I have great 
respect, seem to be so greatly captivated. But there 
is still behind a third consideration concerning this ob- 5 
ject, which serves to determine my opinion on the sort 
of policy which ought to be pursued in the management 
of America, even more than its population and its com- 
merce, I mean its temper and character. 

In this character of the Americans, a love of freedom 10 
is the predominating feature which marks and distin- 
guishes the whole; and as an ardent is always a jealous 
affection, your Colonies become suspicious, restive, and 
untractable, whenever they see the least attempt to wrest 
from them by force or shuffle from them by chicane, what 15 
they think the only advantage worth living for. This 
fierce spirit of liberty is stronger in the English Colo- 
nies probably than in any other people of the earth; and 
this from a great variety of powerful causes; which, to 
understand the true temper of their minds, and the direc- 20 
tion which this spirit takes, it will not be amiss to lay 
open somewhat more largely. 

First, the people of the Colonies are descendants of 
Englishmen. England, Sir, is a nation which still T 
hope respects, and formerly adored, her freedom. The 25 
Colonists emigrated from you when this part of your 
character was most predominant; and they took this bias 
and direction the moment they parted from your hands. 
They are therefore not only devoted to liberty, but to 



B UKKE 



329 



liberty according to English ideas, and on English prin- 30 
ciples. Abstract liberty, like other mere abstractions, 
is not to be found. Liberty inheres in some sensible 
object; and every nation has formed to itself some 
favourite point, which by way of eminence becomes the 
criterion of their happiness. It happened, you know, 35 
Sir, that the great contests for freedom in this country 
were from the earliest times chiefly upon the question of 
taxing. Most of the contests in the ancient common- 
wealths turned primarily on the right of election of mag- 
istrates; or on the balance among the several orders of 40 
the State. The question of money was not with them 
so immediate. But in England it was otherwise. On 
this point of taxes the ablest pens and most eloquent 
tongues have been exercised; the greatest spirits have 
acted and suffered. In order to give the fullest satisfac- 45 
tion concerning the importance of this point, it was not 
only necessary for those who in argument defended the 
excellence of the English Constitution to insist on this 
privilege of granting money as a dry point of fact, and 
to prove that the right had been acknowledged in ancient 50 
parchments and blind usage to reside in a certain body 
called a House of Commons. They went much farther; 
they attempted to prove, and they succeeded, that in 
theory it ought to be so, from the particular nature of a 
House of Commons as an immediate representative of 55 
the people, whether the old records had delivered this 
oracle or not. They took infinite pains to inculcate, as 
a fundamental principle, that in all monarchies the 
people must in effect themselves, mediately or imme- 
diately, possess the power of granting their own money, 60 
or no shadow of liberty could subsist. The Colonies 
draw from you, as with their life-blood, these ideas and 



330 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

principles. Their love of liberty, as with you, fixed 
and attached on this specific point of taxing. Liberty 
might be safe, or might be endangered, in twenty other 65 
particulars, without their being much pleased or alarmed. 
Here they felt its pulse; and as they found that beat, 
they thought themselves sick or sound. I do not say 
whether they were right or wrong in applying your gen- 
eral arguments to their own cause. It is not easy indeed 70 
to make a monopoly of theorems and corollaries. The 
fact is, that they did thus apply those general arguments; 
and your mode of governing them, whether through 
lenity or indolence, through wisdom or mistake, con- 
firmed them in the imagination, that they, as well as 75 
you, had an interest in these common principles. 

They were further confirmed in this pleasing error by 
the form of their provincial legislative assemblies. Their 
governments are popular in a high degree; some are 
merely popular; in all, the popular representative is the 80 
most weighty; and this share of the people in their or- 
dinary government never fails to inspire them with lofty 
sentiments, and with a strong aversion from whatever 
tends to deprive them of their chief importance. 

If anything were wanting to this necessary operation 85 
of the form of government, religion would have given it 
a complete effect. Religion, always a principle of 
energy, in this new people is no way worn out or im- 
paired; and their mode of professing it is also one main 
cause of this free spirit. The people are Protestants; 90 
and of that kind which is the most adverse to all im- 
plicit submission of mind and opinion. This is a per- 
suasion not only favourable to liberty, but built upon it. 
I do not think. Sir, that the reason of this averseness in 
the dissenting churches, from all that looks like absolute 95 



BURKE 331 

government, is so much to be sought in their religious 
tenets as in their history. Every one knows that the 
Roman Catholic religion is at least coeval with most of 
the governments where it prevails; that it has generally 
gone hand in hand with them, and received great favour 100 
and every kind of support from authority. The Church 
of England too was formed from her cradle under the 
nursing care of regular government. But the dissenting 
interests have sprung up in direct opposition to all the 
ordinary powers of the world; and could justify that op- 105 
position only on a strong claim to natural liberty. Their 
very existence depended on the powerful and unremitted 
assertion of that claim. All Protestantism, even the 
most cold and passive, is a sort of dissent. But the 
religion most prevalent in our Northern Colonies is a no 
refinement on the principle of resistance; it is the dissi- 
dence of dissent, and the Protestantism of the Protes- 
tant religion. This religion, under a variety of denomi- 
nations agreeing in nothing but in the communion of 
the spirit of liberty, is predominant in most of the 115 
Northern provinces, where the Church of England, not- 
withstanding its legal rights, is in reality no more than 
a sort of private sect, not composing most probably the 
tenth of the people. The Colonists left England when 
this spirit was high, and in the emigrants was the high- 120 
est of all, and even that stream of foreigners, which 
has been constantly flowing into these Colonies, has, 
for the greatest part, been composed of dissenters from 
the establishments of their several countries, and have 
brought with them a temper and character far from alien 125 
to that of the people with whom they mixed. 

Sir, I can perceive by their manner, that some gen- 
tlemen object to the latitude of this descrijDtion, because 



332 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

in the Southern Colonies the Church of England forms 
a large body, and has a regular establishment. It is 130 
certainly true. There is, however, a circumstance at- 
tending these Colonies, which, in my opinion, fully 
counterbalances this difference, and makes the spirit of 
liberty still more high and haughty than in those to the 
Northward. It is, that in Virginia and the Carolinas 135 
they have a vast multitude of slaves. Where this is the 
case in any part of the world, those who are free are by 
far the most proud and jealous of their freedom. Freedom 
is to them not only an enjoyment, but a kind of rank 
and privilege. Not seeing there, that freedom, as in 140 
countries where it is a common blessing, and as broad 
and general as the air, may be united with much abject 
toil, with great misery, with all the exterior of servitude, 
liberty looks, amongst them, like something that is more 
noble and liberal. I do not mean, Sir, to commend 145 
the superior morality of this sentiment, which has at 
least as much pride as virtue in it; but I cannot alter 
the nature of man. The fact is so; and these people 
of the Southern Colonies are much more strongly, and 
with a higher and more stubborn spirit, attached to 150 
liberty, than those to the Northward. Such were all the 
ancient commonwealths; such were our Gothic ances- 
tors; such in our days were the Poles; and such will be 
all masters of slaves who are not slaves themselves. In 
such a people, the haughtiness of domination combines 155 
with the spirit of freedom, fortifies it, and renders it 
invincible. 

Permit me. Sir, to add another circumstance in our 
Colonies, which contributes no mean part towards the 
growth and effect of this untractable spirit. I mean 160 
their education. In no country perhaps in the world is 



BUKKE 333 

the law so general a study. The profession itself is nu- 
merous and powerful; and in most provinces it takes the 
lead. The greater number of the deputies sent to the 
Congress were lawyers. But all who read (and most do 165 
read), endeavour to obtain some smattering in that 
science. I have been told by an eminent bookseller, 
that in no branch of his business, after tracts of popu- 
lar devotion, were so many books as those on the law 
exported to the plantations. The Colonists have now 170 
fallen into the way of printing them for their own use. 
I hear that they have sold nearly as many of Blackstone's 
Commentaries in America as in England. General Gage 
marks out this disposition very particularly in a letter 
on your table. He states that all the people in his Gov- 175 
ernment are lawyers, or smatterers in law; and that in 
Boston they have been enabled, by successful chicane, 
wholly to evade many parts of one of your capital penal 
constitutions. The smartness of debate will say that 
this knowledge ought to teach them more clearly the 180 
rights of legislature, their obligations to obedience, and 
the penalties of rebellion. All this is mighty well. But 
my honourable and learned friend on the floor, who con- 
descends to mark what I say for animadversion, will 
disdain that ground. He has heard, as well as I, that 1S5 
when great honours and great emoluments do not win 
over this knowledge to the service of the State, it is a 
formidable adversary to Government. If the spirit be 
not tamed and broken by these happy methods, it is 
stubborn and litigious. Abeunt stiidia in mores. This 190 
study renders men acute, inquisitive, dexterous, prompt 
in attack, ready in defence, full of resources. In other 
countries, the people, more simple, and of a less mercu- 
rial cast, judge of an ill principle in government only by 



334 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

an actual grievance; here they anticipate the evil, and 195 
judge of the pressure of the grievance by the badness of 
the principle. They augur misgovernment at a distance ; 
and snuff the approach of tyranny in every tainted breeze. 
The last cause of this disobedient spirit in the Colo- 
nies is hardly less powerful than the rest, as it is not 200 
merely moral, but laid deep in the natural constitution 
of things. Three thousand miles of ocean lie between 
you and them. No contrivance can prevent the effect 
of this distance in weakening government. Seas roll, 
and months pass, between the order and the execution; 205 
and the want of a speedy explanation of a single point is 
enough to defeat a whole system. You have, indeed, 
"winged ministers of vengeance," who carry your bolts 
in their pounces to the remotest verge of the sea. But 
there a power steps in, that limits the arrogance of raging 210 
passions and furious elements, and says, " So far shaft 
thou go, and no farther." Who are you, that you should 
fret and rage, and bite the chains of Nature? — nothing 
worse happens to you than does to all nations who have 
extensive empire; and it happens in all the forms into 215 
which empire can be thrown. In large bodies, the cir- 
culation of power must be less vigorous at the extremi- 
ties. Nature has said it. The Turk cannot govern 
Egypt, and Arabia, and Kurdistan, as he governs Thrace; 
nor has he the same dominion in Crimea and Algiers 220 
which he has at Brusa and Smyrna. Despotism itself is 
obliged to truck and huckster. The Sultan gets such 
obedience as he can. He governs with a loose rein, 
that he may govern at all; and the whole of the force 
and vigour of his authority in his centre is derived from 225 
a prudent relaxation in all his borders. Spain, in her 
provinces, is perhaps not so well obeyed as you are in 



BURKE 335 

yours. She complies too; she submits; she watches 
times. Tliis is the immutable condition, the eternal law, 
of extensive and detached empire. 230 

Then, Sir, from these six capital sources; of descent; 
of form of government; of religion in the northern 
provinces; of manners in the southern; of education; 
of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of 
government; from all these causes a fierce spirit of lib- 235 
erty has grown up. It has grown with the growth of the 
people in your Colonies, and increased with the in- 
crease of their wealth; a spirit, that unhappily meeting 
with an exercise of power in England, which, however 
lawful, is not reconcileable to any ideas of liberty, much 240 
less with theirs, has kindled this flame that is ready to 
consume us. 



WILLIAM COWPER 

(1731-1800) 

THE TASK 
The Post — Tlie Fii'eside in Winter' 

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge, 

That with its wearisome but needful length 

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon 

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright, 

He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 5 

With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks. 

News from all nations lumbering at his back. 

True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, 

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 

Is to conduct it to the destined inn, 10 

And having dropped the expected bag — pass on. 

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. 

Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 

Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, 

To him indifferent whether grief or joy. 15 

Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks. 

Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 

With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks 

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. 

Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, 20 

Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 

His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 

But oh the important budget ! ushered in 



CO WPER 



117 



With such heart-shaking music, who can say 

Wliat are its tidings? have our troops awaked? 25 

Or do they still, as if with opium drugged. 

Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ? 

Is India free? and does she wear her plumed 

And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, 

Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, 30 

The popular harangue, the tart reply. 

The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 

And the loud laugh — I long to know them all; 

I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free. 

And give them voice and utterance once again. 35 

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round. 
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 40 

So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 

O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year, 
Thy scattered air with sleet like ashes filled. 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urged by storms along its slippery way; 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, 50 

And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun 
A prisoner in the yet undawning east. 
Shortening his journey between morn and noon. 
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
Down to the rosy west; but kindly still 55 



45 



338 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Compensating his loss with added hours 
Of social converse and instructive ease, 
And gathering, at short notice, in one group 
The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. 60 

I crown thee King of intimate delights. 
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
Of long uninterrupted evening know. 65 

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; 
No powdered pert, proficient in the art 
Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
Till the street rings; no stationary steeds 
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, 70 
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake : 
But here the needle plies its busy task. 
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, 
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn. 
Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, 75 

And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed. 
Follow the nimble finger of the fair; 
A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow 
With most success when all besides decay. 
The poet's or historian's page, by one 80 

Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; 
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; 
And the clear voice of symphonious, yet distinct. 
And in the charming strife triumphant still; 85 

Beguile the night, and set a keener edge 
. On female industry : the threaded steel 
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. 



CO WPER 



Snow 



339 



I saw the woods and fields at close of day 
A variegated show; the meadows green, 
Though faded j and the lands, where lately waved 
The golden harvest, of a mellow brown. 
Upturned so lately by the forceful share : 5 

I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 
With verdure not unprofitable, grazed 
By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves 
That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, 10 

Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. 
To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 
Which even now, though silently performed 
And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 
Of universal nature undergoes. 15 

Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes 
Descending, and, with never-ceasing lapse, 
Softly alighting upon all below. 
Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green 20 

And tender blade that feared the chilling blast 
Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. 

In such a world, so thorny, and where none 
Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found. 
Without some thistly sorrow at its side, 25 

It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
Against the law of love, to measure lots 
With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus 
We may with patience bear our moderate ills. 
And sympathise with others, suffering more. ^o 

in fares the traveller now, and he that stalks 



340 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

In ponderous boots beside his reeking team 

The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 

By congregated loads adhering close 

To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace 35 

Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. 

The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, 

While every breath, by respiration strong 

Forced downward, is consolidated soon 

Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear 40 

The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, 

With half-shut eyes and puckered cheeks, and teeth 

Presented bare against the storm, plods on. 

One hand secures his hat, save when with both 

He brandishes his pliant length of whip, 45 

Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. 

O happy ! and in my account, denied 

That sensibility of pain with which 

Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou. 

Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 50 

The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired. 

The learned finger never need explore 

Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east. 

That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone 

Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 55 

Thy days roll on exempt from household care, 

The waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts 

That drag the dull companion to and fro, 

Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. 

Ah, treat them kindly ! rude as thou appearest, 60 

Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, 

With needless hurry whirled from place to place, 

Humane as they would seem, not always show. 



COWPER 341 

Early Love of the Country and of Poetry 

But slighted as it is, and by the great 
Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, 
Infected with the manners and the modes 
It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
I never framed a wish, or formed a plan, 5 

That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, 
But there I laid the scene. There early strayed 
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice 
Had found me, or the hope of being free. 
My very dreams were rural, rural too 10 

The firstborn efforts of my youthful muse, 
Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells 
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. 
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned 
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 15 

Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe 
Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, 
The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. 
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: 
New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed 20 

The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
To speak its excellence; I danced for joy. 
I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age 
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 
Engaged my wonder, and admiring still, 25 

And still admiring, with regret supposed 
The joy half lost because not sooner found. 
Thee too, enamoured of the life I loved. 
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 
Determined, and possessing it at last 30 

With transports such as favoured lovers feel, 



342 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, 

Ingenious Cowley ! and though now reclaimed 

By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 

I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 35 

Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools; 

I still revere thee, courtly though retired. 

Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers. 

Not unemployed, and finding rich amends 

For a lost world in solitude and verse. 4° 

The Poet in the Woods 

Here unmolested, through whatever sign 
The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist, 
Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, 
Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. 
Even in the spring and playtime of the year, 5 

That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
With all her little ones, a sportive train. 
To gather kingcups in the yellow mead. 
And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, 10 

These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, 
Grown so familiar with her frequent guest. 
Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarmed 
Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends - 
His long love-ditty for my near approach. 15 

Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm 
That age or injury has hollowed deep, 
Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves 
He has outslept the winter, ventures forth 
To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, 20 

The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. 



CO WPER 343 

He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird. 

Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush. 

And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, 

With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, 25 

And anger insignificantly fierce. 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 5 

' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! ' 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blessed be the art that can immortalize. 
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 10 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidst me honour with an artless song. 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 15 
But gladly, as the precept were her own : 

And, while that face renews my filial grief, 

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream that thou art she. 20 

My mother ! when I learnt that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 



344 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Wretch even then life's journey just begun? 

Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss: 25 

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — ■ 

Ah, that maternal smile ! It answers — Yes. 

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 

And, turning from my nursery window, drew 30 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 

But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 

The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 35 

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. 

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 

What ardently I wished I long believed. 

And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 

By expectation every day beguiled, 40 

Dupe of to-morj-oiv even from a child. 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 

I learned at last submission to my lot; 

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 45 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 50 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair 
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, 55 

Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 



cow PER 345 

A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 60 

The biscuit, or confectionery plum; 

The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed 

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; 

All this, and more endearing still than all. 

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 65 

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes 

That humour interposed too often makes; 

All this still legible in memory's page. 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70 

Such honours to thee as my numbers may; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours. 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 75 

The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile). 
Could those few pleasant days again appear, So 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. — 
But no — what here we call our life is such 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 85 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) 



346 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 90 

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 

There sits quiescent on the floods that show 

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 

While airs impregnated with incense play 

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; 95 

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, 

' Where tempests never beat nor billows roar. ' 

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 

Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100 

Always from port withheld, always distressed — 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost. 

Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 

And day by day some current's thwarting force 

Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 105 

Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 

From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; 

But higher far my proud pretensions rise — no 

The son of parents passed into the skies ! 

And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 

His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; 115 

To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 

Without the sin of violating thine : 

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, 

And I can view this mimic show of thee. 

Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 120 

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



EDWARD GIBBON 

(1737-1794) 

THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 

The Overthrow of Zenobia 

AuRELiAN had no sooner secured the person and prov- 
inces of Tetricus than he turned his arms against Zeno- 
bia, the celebrated Queen of Palmyra and the East. 
Modern Europe has produced several illustrious women 
who have sustained with glory the weight of empire, nor 5 
is our own age destitute of such distinguished charac- 
ters. But if we except the doubtful achievements of 
Semiramis, Zenobia is, perhaps, the only female whose 
superior genius broke through the servile indolence im- 
posed on her sex by the climate and manners of Asia. 10 
She claimed her descent from the Macedonian kings of 
Egypt, equalled in beauty her ancestor Cleopatra, and 
far surpassed that princess in chastity and valor. Zeno- 
bia was esteemed the most lovely as well as the most 
heroic of her sex. She was of a dark complexion (for 15 
in speaking of a lady these trifles become important). 
Her teeth were of a pearly whiteness, and her large 
black eyes sparkled with uncommon fire, tempered by 
the most attractive sweetness. Her voice was strong and 
harmonious. Her manly understanding was strength- 20 
ened and adorned by study. She was not ignorant of 
the Latin tongue, but possessed in equal perfection the 

347 



348 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Greek, the Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. She 
had drawn up for her own use an epitome of Oriental 
history, and familiarly compared the beauties of Homer 25 
and Plato under the tuition of the sublime Longinus. 

This accomplished woman gave her hand to Odena- 
thus, who, from a private station, raised himself to the 
dominion of the East. She soon became the friend 
and companion of a hero. In the intervals of war, 30 
Odenathus passionately delighted in the exercise of 
hunting; he pursued with ardor the wild beasts of the 
desert, lions, panthers, and bears; and the ardor of 
Zenobia in that dangerous amusement was not inferior 
to his own. She had inured her constitution to fatigue, 35 
disdained the use of a covered carriage, generally ap- 
peared on horseback in a military habit, and sometimes 
marched several miles on foot at the head of the troops. 
The success of Odenathus was, in a great measure, as- 
cribed to her incomparable prudence and fortitude. 40 
Their splendid victories over the great king, whom they 
twice pursued as far as the gates of Ctesiphon, laid the 
foundations of their united fame and power. The 
armies which they commanded, and the provinces which 
they had saved, acknowledged not any other sovereigns 45 
than their invincible chiefs. The senate and people 
of Rome revered a stranger who had avenged their cap- 
tive emperor, and even the insensible son of Valerian 
accepted Odenathus for his legitimate colleague. 

After a successful expedition against the Gothic plun- 50 
derers of Asia, the Palmyrenian prince returned to the 
city of Emesa, in Syria. Invincible in war, he was there 
cut off by domestic treason, and his favorite amusement 
of hunting was the cause, or at least the occasion, of his 
death. His nephew Mseonius presumed to dart his 55 



GIBBON 349 

javelin before that of his uncle, and, though admonished 
of his error, repeated the same insolence. As a mon- 
arch and as a sportsman, Odenathus was provoked, took 
away his horse — a mark of ignominy among the barba- 
rians — and chastised the rash youth by a short confine- 60 
ment. The offence was soon forgot, but the punishment 
was remembered, and Maeonius, with a few daring asso- 
ciates, assassinated his uncle in the midst of a great en- 
tertainment. Herod, the son of Odenathus, though not 
of Zenobia, a young man of a soft and effeminate temper, 65 
was killed with his father. But Maeonius obtained only 
the pleasure of revenge by this bloody deed. He had 
scarcely time to assume the title of Augustus before he 
was sacrificed by Zenobia to the memory of her husband. 

With the assistance of his most faithful friends, she 70 
immediately filled the vacant throne, and governed with 
manly councils Palmyra, Syria, and the East above five 
years. By the death of Odenathus, that authority was at 
an end which the senate had granted him only as a per- 
sonal distinction; but his martial widow, disdaining 75 
both the senate and Gallienus, obliged one of the Roman 
generals, who was sent against her, to retreat into Europe, 
with the loss of his army and his reputation. Instead of 
the little passions which so frequently perplex a female 
reign, the steady administration of Zenobia was guided %o 
by the most judicious maxims of policy. If it was ex- 
pedient to pardon, she could calm her resentment; if 
it was necessary to punish, she could impose silence on 
the voice of pity. Her strict economy was accused of 
avarice; yet on every proper occasion she appeared 85 
magnificent and liberal. The neighboring states of 
Arabia, Armenia, and Persia dreaded her enmity and 
solicited her alliance. To the dominions of Odenathus 



350 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

which extended from the Euphrates to the frontiers of 
Bithynia his widow added the inheritance of her ances- 90 
tors, the- populous and fertile kingdom of Egypt. The 
Emperor Claudius acknowledged her merit, and was con- 
tent that, while he pursued the Gothic war, she should 
assert the dignity of the empire in the East. The con- 
duct, however, of Zenobia was attended with some am- 95 
biguity; nor is it unlikely that she had conceived the 
design of erecting an independent and hostile monarchy. 
She blended with the popular manners of Roman princes 
the stately pomp of the courts of Asia, and exacted from 
her subjects the same adoration that was paid to the sue- 100 
cessors of Cyrus. She bestowed on her three sons a 
Latin education, and often showed them to the troops 
adorned with the imperial purple. For herself she re- 
served the diadem, with the splendid but doubtful title 
of Queen of the East. 105 

When Aurelian passed over into Asia, against an adver- 
sary whose sex alone could render her an object of con- 
tempt, his presence restored obedience to the province 
of Bithynia, already shaken by the arms and intrigues of 
Zenobia. Advancing at the head of his legions, he ac- no 
cepted the submission of Ancyra, and was admitted into 
Tyana, after an obstinate siege, by the help of a perfidi- 
ous citizen. The generous though fierce temper of Aure- 
lian abandoned the traitor to the rage of the soldiers; a 
superstitious reverence induced him to treat with lenity 115 
the countrymen of Apollonius, the philosopher. Antioch 
was deserted on his approach, till the emperor, by his 
salutary edicts, recalled the fugitives, and granted a gen- 
eral pardon to all who, from necessity rather than choice, 
had been engaged in the service of the Palmyrenian 120 
queen. The unexpected mildness of such a conduct 



GIBBON 351 

reconciled the minds of the Syrians, and, as far as the 
gates of Emesa, the wishes of the people seconded the 
terror of his arms. 

Zenobia would have ill deserved her reputation had 125 
she indolently permitted the Emperor of the West to 
approach within a hundred miles of her capital. The 
fate of the East was decided in two great battles, so simi- 
lar, in almost every circumstance, that we can scarcely 
distinguish them from each other, except by observing 130 
that the first was fought near Antioch, and the second 
near Emesa. In both the Queen of Palmyra animated 
the armies by her presence, and devolved the execution 
of her orders on Zabdas, who had already signalized his 
military talents by the conquest of Egypt. The numer- r-,5 
ous forces of Zenobia consisted for the most part of light 
archers, and of heavy cavalry clothed in complete steel. 
The Moorish and Illyrian horse of Aurelian were unable 
to sustain the ponderous charge of their antagonists. 
They fled in real or affected disorder, engaged the Pal- 140 
myrenians in a laborious pursuit, harassed them by a 
desultory combat, and at length discomfited this impene- 
trable but unwieldy body of cavalry. The light infantry, 
in the meantime, when they had exhausted their quivers, 
remaining without protection against a closer onset, ex- 145 
posed their naked sides to the swords of the legions. 
Aurelian had chosen these veteran troops, who were usu- 
ally stationed on the Upper Danube, and whose valor 
had been severely tried in the Alemannic war. After the 
defeat of Emesa, Zenobia found it impossible to collect 150 
a third army. As far as the frontier of Egypt, the 
nations subject to her empire had joined the standard 
of the conqueror, who detached Probus, the bravest of 
his generals, to possess himself of the Egyptian prov- 



352 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

inces. Palmyra was the last resource of the widow of 155 
Odenathas. She retired within the walls of her capital, 
made every preparation for a vigorous resistance, and 
declared, with the intrepidity of a heroine, that the last 
moment of her reign and of her life should be the same. 

Amid the barren deserts of Arabia, a few cultivated 160 
spots rise like islands out of the sandy ocean. Even the 
name of Tadmor, or Palmyra, by its signification in the 
Syriac as well as in the Latin language, denoted the mul- 
titude of palm-trees which afforded shade and verdure 
to that temperate region. The air was pure, and the 165 
soil, watered by some invaluable springs, was capable of 
producing fruits as well as corn. A place possessed of 
such singular advantages, and situated at a convenient 
distance between the Gulf of Persia and the Mediterra- 
nean, was soon frequented by the caravans which con- 170 
veyed to the nations of Europe a considerable part of 
the rich commodities of India. Palmyra insensibly in- 
creased into an opulent and independent city, and, con- 
necting the Roman and the Parthian monarchies by the 
mutual benefits of commerce, was suffered to observe a 175 
humble neutrality, till at length, after the victories of 
Trajan, the little republic sank into the bosom of Rome, 
and flourished more than one hundred and fifty years in 
the subordinate though honorable rank of a colony. It 
was during that peaceful period, if we may judge from a 180 
few remaining inscriptions, that the wealthy Palmyre- 
nians constructed those temples, palaces, and porticos 
of Grecian architecture whose ruins, scattered over an 
extent of several miles, have deserved the curiosity of 
our travellers. The elevation of Odenathus and Zenobia 185 
appeared to reflect new splendor on their country, and 
Palmyra, for a while, stood forth the rival of Rome; but 



GIBBON 353 

the competition was fatal, and ages of prosperity were 
sacrificed to a moment of glory. 

In his march over the sandy desert between Emesa 190 
and Palmyra, the Emperor Aurelian was perpetually 
harassed by the Arabs; nor could he always defend his 
army, and especially his baggage, from those flying 
troops of active and daring robbers, who watched the 
moment of surprise, and eluded the slow pursuit of the 195 
legions. The siege of Palmyra was an object far more 
difficult and important, and the emperor, who, with in- 
cessant vigor, pressed the attacks in person, was himself 
wounded with a dart. "The Roman people," says Au- 
relian, in an original letter, " speak with contempt of 200 
the war which I am waging against a woman. They are 
ignorant both of the character and of the power of Zeno- 
bia. It is impossible to enumerate her warlike prepara- 
tions of stones, of arrows, and of every species of missile 
weapons. Every part of the walls is provided with two 205 
or three balistce, and artificial fires are thrown from her 
military engines. The fear of punishment has armed 
her with a desperate courage. Yet still I trust in the 
protecting deities of Rome, who have hitherto been 
favorable to all my undertakings." Doubtful, however, 210 
of the protection of the gods, and of the event of the 
siege, Aurelian judged it more prudent to offer terms of 
an advantageous capitulation : to the queen, a splendid 
retreat; to the citizens, their ancient privileges. His 
proposals were obstinately rejected, and the refusal was 215 
accompanied with insult. 

The firmness of Zenobia was supported by the hope 
that in a very short time famine would compel the Roman 
army to repass the desert, and by the reasonable expecta- 
tion that the kings of the East, and particularly the Per- 22c 

2A 



354 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

sian monarch, would arm in the defence of their most 
natural ally. But fortune, and the perseverance of Aure- 
lian, overcame every obstacle. The death of Sapor, 
which happened about this time, distracted the councils 
of Persia, and the inconsiderable succors that attempted 225 
to relieve Palmyra were easily intercepted either by the 
arms or the liberality of the emperor. From every part 
of Syria a regular succession of convoys safely arrived in 
the camp, which was increased by the return of Probus 
with his victorious troops from the conquest of Egypt. 230 
It was then that Zenobia resolved to fly. She mounted 
the fleetest of her dromedaries, and had already reached 
the banks of the Euphrates, about sixty miles from Pal- 
myra, when she was overtaken by the pursuit of Aure- 
lian's light horse, seized, and brought back a captive to 235 
the feet of the emperor. Her capital soon afterwards 
surrendered, and was treated with unexpected lenity. 
The arms, horses, and camels, with an immense treasure 
of gold, silver, silk, and precious stones, were all de- 
livered to the conqueror, who, leaving only a garrison 240 
of six hundred archers, returned to Emesa, and em- 
ployed some time in the distribution of rewards and 
punishments at the end of so memorable a war, which 
' restored to the obedience of Rome those provinces that 
had renounced their allegiance since the captivity of 245 
Valerian. 

When the Syrian queen was brought into the presence 
of Aurelian, he sternly asked her how she had presumed 
to rise in arms against the emperors of Rome ! The 
answer of Zenobia was a prudent mixture of respect and 250 
firmness : " Because I disdained to consider as Roman 
emperors an Aureolus or a Gallienus. You alone I ac- 
knowledge as my conqueror and my sovereign." But as 



GIBBON 



355 



female fortitude is commonly artificial, so it is seldom 
steady or consistent. The courage of Zenobia deserted 255 
her in the hour of trial. She trembled at the angry 
clamors of the soldiers, who called aloud for her imme- 
diate execution, forgot the generous despair of Cleopatra, 
which she had proposed as her model, and ignomini- 
ously purchased life by the sacrifice of her fame and her 260 
friends. It was to their counsels, which governed the 
weakness of her sex, that she imputed the guilt of her 
obstinate resistance; it was on their heads that she di- 
rected the vengeance of the cruel Aurelian. The fame 
of Longinus, who was included among the numerous and 265 
perhaps innocent victims of her fear, will survive that 
of the queen who betrayed, or the tyrant who condemned 
him. Genius and learning were incapable of moving 
a fierce, unlettered soldier, but they had served to ele- 
vate and harmonize the soul of Longinus. Without 270 
uttering a complaint, he calmly followed the execu- 
tioner, pitying his unhappy mistress, and bestowing 
comfort on his afflicted friends. 

Since the foundation of Rome, no general had more 
nobly deserved a triumph than Aurelian; nor was a tri- 275 
umph ever celebrated with superior pride and magnifi- 
cence. The pomp was opened by twenty elephants, 
four royal tigers, and above two hundred of the most 
curious animals from every climate of the north, the 
east, and the south. They were followed by sixteen 2S0 
hundred gladiators, devoted to the cruel amusement of 
the amphitheatre. The wealth of Asia, the arms and 
ensigns of so many conquered nations, and the magnifi- 
cent plate and wardrobe of the Syrian queen, were 
disposed in exact symmetry or artful disorder. The 285 



356 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ambassadors of the most remote parts of the earth, of 
yii^thiopia, Arabia, Persia, Bactriana, India, and China, 
all remarkable by their rich or singular dresses, dis- 
played the fame and power of the Roman emperor, 
who exposed likewise to the public view the presents 290 
that he had received, and particularly a great number 
of crowns of gold, the offerings of grateful cities. The 
victories of Aurelian were attested by the long train of 
captives who reluctantly attended his triumph — Goths, 
Vandals, Sarmatians, Alemanni, Franks, Gauls, Syrians, 295 
and Egyptians. Each people was distinguished by its 
peculiar inscription, and the title of Amazons was be- 
stowed on ten martial heroines of the Gothic nation who 
had been taken in arms. But every eye, disregarding 
the crowd of captives, was fixed on the Emperor Tetri- 300 
cus and the Queen of the East. The former, as well as 
his son, whom he had created Augustus, was dressed in 
Gallic trousers, a saffron tunic, and a robe of purple. 
The beauteous figure of Zenobia was confined by fetters 
of gold; a slave supported the gold chain which encircled 305 
her neck, and she almost fainted under the intolerable 
weight of jewels. She preceded on foot the magnificent 
chariot, in which she once hoped to enter the gates of 
Rome. It was followed by two other chariots, still more 
sumptuous, of Odenathus and of the Persian monarch. 310 
The triumphal car of Aurelian (it had formerly been 
used by a Gothic king) was drawn, on this memorable 
occasion, either by four stags or by four elephants. The 
most illustrious of the senate, the people, and the army 
closed the solemn procession. Unfeigned joy, wonder, 315 
and gratitude swelled the acclamations of the multitude; 
but the satisfaction of the senate was clouded by the ap- 
pearance of Tetricus; nor could they suppress a rising 



GIBBON 357 

murmur, that the haughty emperor should thus expose to 
public ignominy the person of a Roman and a magistrate. 320 

But, however in the treatment of his unfortunate rivals 
Aurelian might indulge his pride, he behaved towards 
them with a generous clemency, which was seldom exer- 
cised by the ancient conquerors. Princes who, without 
success, had defended their throne or freedom, were fre- 325 
quently strangled in prison, as soon as the triumphal 
pomp ascended the Capitol. These usurpers, whom 
their defeat had convicted of the crime of treason, were 
permitted to spend their lives in affluence and honorable 
repose. The emperor presented Zenobia with an elegant 330 
villa at Tibur, or Tivoli, about twenty miles from the 
capital; the Syrian queen insensibly sunk into a Roman 
matron, her daughters married into noble families, and 
her race was not yet extinct in the fifth century. 



WILLIAM BLAKE 

(1757-1827) 

TO THE EVENING STAR 

Thou fair-haired Angel of the Evening, 

Now whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light 

Thy bright torch of love — thy radiant crown 

Put on, and smile upon our evening bed ! 

Smile on our loves; and while thou drawest the 

Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew 

On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes 

In timely sleep. Let thy West Wind sleep on 

The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes 

And wash the dusk with silver. — Soon, full soon, 

Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, 

And the lion glares through the dun forest, 

The fleeces of our flocks are covered with 

Thy sacred dew; protect them with thine influence! 



SONG 

My silks and fine array, 

My smiles and languished air, 
By love are driven away; 

And mournful lean Despair 
Brings me yew to deck my grave ; 
Such end true lovers have. 
358 



BLAKE 359 

His face is fair as heaven 

When springing buds unfold; 
Oh, why to him was't given 

Whose heart is wintry cold? lo 

His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb 
Where all love's pilgrims come. 

Bring me an axe and spade, 

Bring me a winding sheet; 
When I my grave have made, 15 

Let winds and tempest beat; 
Then down I'll lie as cold as clay. 
True love doth pass away ! 



SONG 

How sweet I roamed from field to field, 

And tasted all the summer's pride; 
Till I the Prince of love beheld. 

Who in the sunny beams did glide. 

He showed me lilies for my hair, 5 

And blushing roses for my brow; 
And led me through his gardens fair. 

Where all his golden pleasures grow. 

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet, 

And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; 10 

He caught me in his silken net. 
And shut me in his golden cage. 

He loves to sit and hear me sing. 

Then laughing sports and plays with me, 

Then stretches out my golden wing, ^S 

And mocks my loss of liberty. 



360 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

SONG 

Memory, hither come 

And tune your merry notes; 
And while upon the wind 

Your music floats, 
I'll pore upon the stream 5 

Where sighing lovers dream, 
And fish for fancies as they pass 
Within the watery glass. 

I'll drink of the clear stream, 

And hear the linnet's song, 10 

And there I'll lie and dream 

The day along; 
And when night comes I'll go 
To places fit for woe, 

Walking along the darkened valley, 15 

With silent Melancholy. 



MAD SONG 



The wild winds weep, 

And the night is a-cold, 
Come hither. Sleep, 

And my griefs enfold : 
But lo ! the morning peeps 
Over the eastern steeps, 
And the rustling beds of dawn 
The earth do scorn. 

Lo ! to the vault 

Of paved heaven 
With sorrow fraught 

My notes are driven; 



BLAKE 361 

They strike the ear of night, 

Make weak the eyes of day; 

They make mad the roaring winds 15 

And with tempests play. 

Like a fiend in a cloud 

With howling woe 
After night I do crowd 

And with night will go; 20 

I turn my back to the east 
From whence comforts have increased; 
For light doth seize my brain 
With frantic pain. 



TO THE MUSES 

Whether on Ida's shady brow, 

Or in the chambers of the East, 
The chambers of the Sun that now 

From ancient melody have ceased; 

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, 5 

Or the green corners of the Earth, 

Or the blue regions of the air, 

Where the melodious winds have birth; 

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove 

Beneath the bosom of the sea, 10 

Wandering in many a coral grove; 

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry: 

How have you left your ancient love 
That bards of old enjoyed in you ! 

The languid strings do scarcely move, 15 

The sound is forced, the notes are few. 



362 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

SONG 

Piping down the valleys wild, 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 
On a cloud I saw a child, 
And he laughing said to me : — 

^Pipe a song about a lamb: ' 5 

So I piped with merry cheer. 
'Piper, pipe that song again: ' 
So I piped; he wept to hear. 

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer : ' 10 

So I sung the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

'Piper, sit thee down and write 

In a book that all may read ' — 

So he vanished from my sight; 15 

And I plucked a hollow reed. 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stained the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs. 

Every child may joy to hear. 20 



THE LAMB 



Little lamb, who made thee? 
Dost thou know who made thee. 
Gave thee life and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 



BLAKE 363 

Gave thee clothing of delight, 5 

Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice ! 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee ? 10 

Little lamb, I'll tell thee; 

Little lamb, I'll tell thee. 

He is called by thy name, 

For He calls himself a Lamb; 

He is meek and He is mild, 15 

He became a little child. 

I a child and thou a lamb, 

We are called by His name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee ! 

Little lamb, God bless thee ! 20 



NIGHT 



The sun descending in the west. 
The evening star does shine; 
The birds are silent in their nest, 
And I must seek for mine. 
The moon, like a flower 
In heaven's high bower. 
With silent delight 
Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and happy grove, 
Where flocks have ta'en delight; 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move 
The feet of angels bright : 



364 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Unseen tKey pour blessing, 

And joy without ceasing, 

On each bud and blossom, 15 

On each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 

AVhere birds are covered warm; 

They visit caves of every beast. 

To keep them all from harm. 20 

If they see any weeping 

That should have been sleeping, 

They pour sleep on their head, 

And sit down by their bed. 

When wolves and tigers howl for prey 25 

They pitying stand and weep, 

Seeking to drive their thirst away, 

And keep them from the sheep. 

But if they rush dreadful 

The angels most heedful 30 

Receive each mild spirit 

New worlds to inherit. 

And there the lion's ruddy eyes 

Shall flow with tears of gold : 

And pitying the tender cries, 35 

And walking round the fold. 

Saying : ' Wrath by His meekness, 

And by His health sickness, 

Are driven away 

From our immortal day. 40 

And now beside thee, bleating lamb, 
I can lie down and sleep, 
Or think on Him who bore thy name, 
Graze after thee, and weep. 



BLAKE 365 

For, washed in life's river, 45 

My bright mane for ever 
Shall shine like the gold 
As I guard o'er the fold.' 



AH, SUNFLOWER 

Ah, Sunflower, weary of time, 
Who countest the steps of the sun, 
Seeking after that sweet golden clime 
Where the traveller's journey is done — 

Where the youth pined away with desire, 
And the pale virgin, shrouded in snow, 
Arise from their graves, and aspire 
Where my sunflower wishes to go ! 



THE TIGER 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? and what dread feet? 



366 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

What the hammer? what the chain? 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil ? What dread grasp 15 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 

And watered heaven with their tears, 

Did He smile His work to see? 

Did He who made the lamb, make thee? 20 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 



THE ANGEL 

I DREAMT a dream ! What can it mean? 
And that I was a maiden queen, 
Guarded by an angel mild; 
Witless woe was ne'er beguiled. 

And I wept both night and day, 5 

And he wiped my tears away; 
And I wept both day and night. 
And hid from him my heart's delight. 

So he took his wings and fled; 

Then the morn blushed rosy red; 10 

I dried my tears and armed my fears 

With ten thousand shields and spears. 

Soon my angel came again : 

I was armed, he came in vain; 

For the time of youth was fled, 15 

And grey hairs were on my head. 



ROBERT BURNS 

(1759-1796) 

MARY MORISON 

TUNE : " Bide ye yet " 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That makes the miser's treasure poor: 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 5 

A weary slave frae sun to sun; 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 10 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard or saw : 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw. 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said amang them a', 15 

"Ye are nae Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 20 

1^1 



368 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
At least be pity to me shown; 

A thought ungentle canna be 
The thought o' Mary Morison. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
<» The short but simple annals of the Poor. — GRAY. 

My loved, my honoured, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays; 

With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end. 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 

Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 10 

The short' ning winter-day is near a close; 

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 

The black' ning trains o' craws to their repose; 

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, — 

This niglit his weekly moil is at an end, 15 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 



BURNS ^ 369 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 20 

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher thro', 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 

His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily. 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile^ 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 

An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 

Some ca' the pleugh, some herd) some tentie rin 30 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 

Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 35 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers: 

The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet, 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 40 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, 

Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45 

Their master's an' their mistress's command. 
The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play; 

2L! 



3/0 ' FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

'And, oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 50 

And mind your duty, duly morn and night ! 

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! ' 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 55 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor, 
To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 60 

Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; 
Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless 
rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; 
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; 65 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 70 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the 
lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 

I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 75 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 

'If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 



BURNS 371 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 80 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale ! ' 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! ■ 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 85 

Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? 

Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild. 90 

But now the supper crowns their simple board. 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: 

The sowpe their only hawkie does afford. 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; 

The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 95 

To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell, 

An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 

How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 100 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: 

His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 105 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care; 

And 'Let us worship God! ' he says, with solemn air. 



372 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: nc 

Perhaps 'Dundee's ' wild warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the name; 

Or noble 'Elgin ' beets the heavenward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:' 

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; 115 

The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; 

Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high; 

Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 120 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 

Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 125 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head : 130 

How His first followers and servants sped; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 135 
command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 



BURNS 373 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, 140 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 

Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear; 

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145 

In all the pomp of method, and of art. 

When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart! 

The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 150 

But haply, in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; 

And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their several way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 155 

The parent-pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request. 

That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 160 

For them, and for their little ones provide; 

But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; 165 

'An honest man's the noblest work of God: ' 

And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 

What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 170 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! 



374 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, 

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 175 

And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 

And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. 180 

O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; 

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 

(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, 185 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 

O never, never Scotia's realm desert; 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. 

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



I LOVE MY JEAN 
TUNE: ^^ Miss Admiral Gordon'' s Strathspey'''* 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best: 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And monie a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



BURNS 375 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : lo 

I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green; 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 15 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1 786 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem. 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 5 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 10 

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 

Upon thy early, humble birth; 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 15 

Amid the stprm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 



3/6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, 20 

But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane. 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25 

Thy snawie bosom sun- ward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 30 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 35 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 40 

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 

By human pride or cunning driv'n 45 

To mis'ry's brink. 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink! 



BURNS 377 

Ev'n thou who mourn 'st the daisy's fate, 

That fate is thine — no distant date; 50 

Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush' d beneath the furrow's weight. 

Shall be thy doom ! 



HARK! THE MAVIS 

TUNE : " Co" the yo7ves to the Kiiowes " 

Chorus : Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 

Ca' them where the heather grow% 
Ca' them where the burnie rows, 
My bonnie Dearie. 

H!ark ! the mavis' e'ening sang 5 

Sounding Clouden's woods amang, 
Then a-faulding let us gang. 
My bonnie Dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 10 

Thro' the hazels spreading wide. 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 15 

Where at moonshine midnight hours. 
O'er the dew^-bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca' the yowes, &:c. 



3/8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; 20 

Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie Dearie. 
Ca' the yowes, &c. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 25 

Thou hast stown my very heart; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie Dearie. 
Ca' the yd^ves, &c. 



FOR A' THAT AND A^ THAT 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by. 
We dare be poor for a' that ! 

For a' that, an' a' that, 5 

Our toils obscure, an' a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp; 
The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hodden-grey, an' a' that; 10 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that: 
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 15 

Is King o' men for a' that. 



BURNS 379 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, an' a' that; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that: 20 

For a' that, an' a' that. 

His riband, star, an' a' that. 
The man of independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 25 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

Their dignities, an' a' that, 30 

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth 
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

(As come it will for a' that), 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 35 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 

It's coming yet for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 4° 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

(1770-1850) 

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 

I HEARD a thousand blended notes, 
While in a grove I sat reclined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 5 

The human soul that through me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; * 10 

And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played. 
Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
But the least motion which they made, 15 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
To catch the breezy air; 
And I must think, do all I can, 
That there was pleasure there. 20 

380 



WORDSWORTH 381 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man? 



PRELUDE 

Influence of Nature upon tlie Iniaginafion in Early Youth 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 

Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought, 

And givest to forms and images a breath 

And everlasting motion, not in vain 

By day or star-light thus from my first dawn 

Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 

The passions that build up our human soul; 

Not with the mean and vulgar works of man. 

But with high objects, with enduring things — 

With life and nature — purifying thus i, 

The elements of feeling and of thought, 

And sanctifying, by such discipline, 

Both pain and fear, until we recognise 

A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me i 

With stinted kindness. In November days, 

When vapours rolling down the valley made 

A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods. 

At noon, and 'mid the calm of summer nights. 

When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 2( 

Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went 

In solitude, such intercourse was mine: 

Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 

And by the waters, all the summer long. 



382 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And in the frosty season, when the sun " 25 

Was set, and visible for many a mile 
The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
I heeded not their summons : happy time 
It was indeed for all of us — for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 30 

The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about, 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel. 
We hissed along the polished ice in games 
Confederate, imitative of the chase 35 

And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
So through the darkness and the cold we flevv, 
And not a voice was idle; with the din 
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 4° 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills 
Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west 45 

The orange sky of evening died away. 
Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
Into a silent bay, or sportively 
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
To cut across the reflex of a star 50 

That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes. 
When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
And all the shadowy banks on either side 
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 55 
The rapid line of motion, then at once 
Have I, reclining back upon my heels 



WORDSWORTH 383 

Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs 
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 
With visible motion her diurnal round ! 60 

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song. Lark, is strong; 
Up with me, up with me into the clouds! 

Singing, singing. 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 5 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary. 

And to-day my heart is weary; 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, ^ 10 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 

To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 15 

Joyous as morning 
Thou art laughing and scorning; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. 
And, though little troubled with sloth. 
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loath 20 

To be such a traveller as L 



384 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river 

Pouring out praise to the ahiiighty Giver, 

Joy and jollity be with us both! 25 

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; 

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30 

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 



THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 

Yon solitary Highland Lass 1 

Reaping and singing by herself; 

Stop here, or gently pass ! 

Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 5 

And sings a melancholy strain; 

O listen ! for the Vale profound 

Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chaunt 

More welcome notes to weary bands 10 

Of travellers in some shady haunt 

Among Arabian sands : 

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 

In spring-time from a Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking the silence of the seas 15 

Among the farthest Hebrides. 



WORDSWORTH 385 

Will no one tell me what she sings? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago : 20 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be again? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 25 

As if her song could have no ending; 

I saw her singing at her work, 

And o'er the sickle bending; — 

I listened, motionless and still; 

And, as I mounted up the hill, 30 

The music in my heart I bore, 

Long after it was heard no more. 



THE DAFFODILS 

I WANDERED loucly as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills. 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

2C 



386 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay, 15 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought. 



^&' 



For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



MILTON 



Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: 

England hath need of thee : she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 

Oh! raise us up, return to us again; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 

So didst thou travel on life's common way, 

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



WORDS IVOR TH 387 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT 
FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES 

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 

Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 

Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: 

Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 

For kindred Power departing from their sight; 5 

While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain. 

Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 

Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 

Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; 

Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 10 

Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows. 

Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 

Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. 

Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 



ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 

The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5 



388 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 

II 

The Rainbow comes and goes lo 

And lovely is the Rose; 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 
Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 15 

The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 

Ill 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 20 

As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief. 

And I again am strong: 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 25 

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay; 

Land and Sea 30 

Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday; — 



WORDS IVOR TH 3 89 

Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 35 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 40 

My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-morning, 45 

And the Children are culling 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — • 50 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
— But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 

The Pansy at my feet 55 

Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 60 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar: 



390 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 65 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows 70 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 75 

At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

And even with something of a Mother's mind, 80 

And no unworthy aim. 
The homely Nurse doth all she can 

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known. 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 85 

VII 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 

A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his -mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's eyes! 90 



WORDSWORTH 39 1 

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 95 

And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife : 

But it will not be long 100 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 105 

That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity; no 

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'stthe eternal deep, 
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest! 115 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 120 

A Presence which is not to be put by; 



302 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 

The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 125 

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 

And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX 

O joy ! that in our embers 130 

Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not in deed 135 

For that which is most worthy to be blest; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 

Not for these I raise 140 

The song of thanks and praise; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 145 

Moving about in worlds not realised. 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 150 

Which, be they what they may. 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 



WORDS IVOR 1 11 393 

Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 155 

Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be. 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither, 165 

Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

X 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 

And let the young Lambs bound 170 

As to the tabor's sound! 

We in thought will join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 175 

What though the radiance Avhich was once so bright 

Be now for ever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find iSo 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be; 



394 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering; 185 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind„ 



XI 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 190 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 195 

Is lovely yet; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 200 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



TO THE QUEEN 

Deign, Sovereign Mistress ! to accept a lay. 
No Laureate offering of elaborate art; 

But salutation, taking its glad way 
From deep recesses of a loyal heart. 



WORDSWORTH . 395 

Queen, wife, and mother ! may all- judging Heaven 5 
Shower with a bounteous hand on thee and thine 

Felicity, that only can be given 

On earth to goodness blessed by grace divine. 

Lady ! devoutly honored and beloved 

Through every realm confided to thy sway; 10 

May' St thou pursue thy course by God approved, 

And he will teach thy people to obey. 

As thou art wont thy sovereignty adorn 

With woman's gentleness, yet firm and staid; 

So shall that earthly crown thy brows have worn 15^ 

Be changed to one whose glory cannot fade. 

And now, by duty urged, I lay this book 

Before thy Majesty in humble trust, 
That on its simplest pages thou wilt look 

With a benign indulgence, more than just. 20 

Nor wilt thou blame an aged poet's prayer, 
That, issuing hence, may steal into thy mind. 

Some solace under weight of royal care. 
Or grief, the inheritance of human kind. 

For know we not that from celestial spheres 25 

When time was young an inspiration came, 

(O were it mine !) to hallow saddest tears 
And help life onward in its noblest aim? 

w. W. 

Rydal Mount, 9th January, 1846. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

(1772-1834) 

TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY 

An Allcgoiy 

On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, 
Two lovely children run an endless race, 
A sister and a brother ! 
That far outstripped the other; 
Yet ever runs she with reverted face. 
And looks and listens for the boy behind: 
For he, alas ! is blind ! 
O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, 
And knows not whether he be first or last. 



FROST AT MIDNIGHT 

The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 

39^ 



COLERIDGE 397 

'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
'And vexes meditation with its strange 

And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, lo 

This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 

With all the numberless goings on of life, 

Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 

Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not; 

Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 15 

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 

Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 

Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 

Making it a companionable form, 

Whose puny flaps and freaks, the idling spirit 20 

By its own mood interprets, every where 

Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 

And makes a toy of thought. 

But O ! how oft. 

How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 25 

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 

To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 

With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 

Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 

Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 3° 

From morn to evening, all the hot fair-day. 

So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 

With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 

Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 

So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt, 35 

Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 

And so I brooded all the following morn, 

Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 

Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: 

Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 4° 



398 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
My playmate when we both were clothed alike! 

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 45 

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 50 

And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 55 

By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds 
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 60 

Of that eternal language, which thy God 
Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
Himself in all, and all things in Himself. 
Great universal Teacher ! He shall mould 
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 65 

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 70 

Smokes in the sun- thaw; whether the eave-drops fall, 



COLERIDGE 399 

Heard only in the trances of the blast, 

Or if the secret ministry of frost 

Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 75 



MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 

In' his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 

On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 

The Arve and the Arveiron at thy base 

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! 5 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 

How silently ! Around thee and above 

Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, 

An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 

As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 10 

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 

Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, 15 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 

Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy; 20 

Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 

Into the mighty vision passing — there. 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 



400 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Thouovvest! not alone these swelling tears, 25 

Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the Vale ! 

Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 30 

And visited all night by troops of stars, 

Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: 

Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn. 

Co-herald ! wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! 35 

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 

Forever shattered and the same forever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life. 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 

And who commanded — and the silence came — 

"Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?" 

Ye ice-falls! ye that form the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 50 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 



COLERIDGE 4OI 

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55 

Clothe you with rainbows? Who with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue spread garlands at your feet? 
"God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer; and let the ice-plains echo, "God!" 
" God ! " sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 60 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!" 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 65 

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements! 

Utter forth " God ! " and fill the hills with praise! 

Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 70 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene. 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 
Thou too, again, stupendous mountain, thou 
That, as I raise my head, a while bowed low 75 

In adoration, upward from thy base. 
Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — rise, O, ever rise; 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth. 80 

Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills. 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky. 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God ! 85 

2 D 



402 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

SHAKESPEARE 

The True Critic 

Assuredly that criticism of Shakespeare will alone be 
genial which is reverential. The Englishman who with- 
out reverence — a proud and affectionate reverence — 
can utter the name of William Shakespeare, stands dis- 
qualified for the of^ce of critic. He wants one at least 5 
of the very senses, the language of which he is to em- 
ploy, and will discourse at best but as a blind man, while 
the whole harmonious creation of light and shade, with 
all its subtle interchange of deepening and dissolving 
colors, rises in silence to the silent fiat of the uprising 10 
Apollo. However inferior in ability I may be to some 
who have followed me, I own I am proud that I was the 
first in time who publicly demonstrated to the full extent 
of the position, that the supposed irregularity and ex- 
travagances of Shakespeare were the mere dreams of a 15 
pedantry that arraigned the eagle because it had not the 
dimensions of the swan. In all the successive courses 
of lectures delivered by me, since my first attempt at the 
Royal Institution, it has been, and it still remains, my 
object to prove that in all points, from the most impor- 20 
tant to the most minute, the judgment of Shakespeare is 
commensurate with his genius — nay, that his genius 
reveals itself in his judgment, as in its most exalted 
form. And the more gladly do I recur to this subject 
from the clear conviction, that to judge aright, and with 25 
distinct consciousness of the grounds of our judgment, 
concerning the works of Shakespeare, implies the power 
and the means of judging rightly of all other works of 
intellect, those of abstract science alone excepted. 



COLERIDGE ' 403 

It is a painful truth that not only individuals, but 30 
even whole nations, are ofttimes so enslaved to the habits 
of their education and immediate circumstances, as not 
to judge disinterestedly, even on those subjects, the very 
pleasure arising from which consists in its disinterested- 
ness, namely, on subjects of taste and polite literature. 35 
Instead of deciding concerning their own modes and cus- 
toms by any rule of reason, nothing appears rational, be- 
coming, or beautiful to them, but what coincides with 
the peculiarities of their education. In this narrow 
circle, individuals may attain to exquisite discrimina- 40 
tion, as the French critics have done in their own litera- 
ture; but a true critic can no more be such without 
placing himself on some central point, from which he 
may command the whole, that is, some general rule, 
which, founded in reason, or the faculties common to 45 
all men, must therefore apply to each, — than an astrono- 
mer can explain the movements of the solar system 
without taking his stand in the sun. 

And let me remark that this will not tend to produce 
despotism, but, on the contrary, true tolerance in the 50 
critic. He will, indeed, require, as the spirit and sub- 
stance of a work, something true in human nature itself, 
and independent of all circumstances; but in the mode 
of applying it, he will estimate genius and judgment 
according to the felicity with which the imperishable soul 55 
of intellect shall have adapted itself to the age, the 
place, and the existing manners. The error he will ex- 
pose, lies in reversing this, and holding up the mere 
circumstances as perpetual, to the utter neglect of the 
power which can alone animate them. For art cannot 60 
exist without, or apart from nature; and what has man 
of his own to give to his fellow-man but his own thoughts 



404 FROM 'CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

and feelings, and his observations, so far as they are 
modified by his own thoughts or feelings? 

Let me, then, once more submit this question to 65 
minds emancipated alike from national, or party, or 
sectarian prejudices: Are the plays of Shakespeare 
works of rude uncultivated genius, in which the splen- 
dour of the parts compensates, if aught can compensate, 
for the barbarous shapelessness and irregularity of the 70 
whole? Or is the form equally admirable with the mat- 
ter, and the judgment of the great poet not less deserv- 
ing our wonder than his genius? Or, again, to repeat 
the question in other words: Is Shakespeare a great 
dramatic poet on account only of those beauties and 75 
excellencies which he possesses in common with the 
ancients, but with diminished claims to our love and 
honour to the full extent of his differences from them? 
Or are these very differences additional proofs of poetic 
wisdom, at once results and symbols of living power as 80 
contrasted with lifeless mechanism — of free and rival 
originality — as contra-distinguished from servile imi- 
tation, or, more accurately, a blind copying of effects, 
instead of a true imitation of the essential principles? 
Imagine not that I am about to oppose genius to rules. 85 
No ! the comparative value of these rules is the very 
cause to be tried. 

The spirit of poetry, like all other living powers, must 
of necessity circumscribe itself by rules, were it only to 
unite power with beauty. It must embody in order to 90 
reveal itself; but a living body is of necessity an organ- 
ized one; and what is organization but the connection 
of parts in and for a whole, so that each part is at once 
end and means? — This is no discovery of criticism; it 
is a necessity of the human mind; and all nations have 95 



COLERIDGE 405 

felt and obeyed it, in the invention of metre, and meas- 
ured sounds, as a vehicle and involucruui of poetry — 
itself a fellow-growth from the same life — even as the 
bark is to the tree ! 

No work of true genius dares want its appropriate 100 
form, neither indeed is there any danger of this. As it 
must not, so genius cannot, be lawless; for it is even 
this that constitutes it genius — the power of acting 
creatively under laws of its own origination. How then 
comes it that not only single Zoili, but whole nations 105 
have combined in unhesitating condemnation of our 
great dramatist, as a sort of African nature, rich in beau- 
tiful monsters — as a wild heath where islands of fertility 
look the greener from the surrounding waste, where the 
loveliest plants now shine out among unsightly weeds, no 
and now are choked by their parasitic growth, so inter- 
twined that we cannot disentangle the weed without 
snapping the flower? In this statement I have had no 
reference to the vulgar abuse of Voltaire, save as far as 
his charges are coincident with the decisions of Shake- 115 
speare's own commentators and (so they would tell you) 
almost idolatrous admirers. The true ground of the 
mistake lies in confounding mechanical regularity with 
organic form. . . . Nature, the primegenial artist, 
inexhaustible in diverse powers, is equally inexhausti- 120 
ble in forms; — each exterior is the physiognomy of 
the being within, — its true image reflected and thrown 
out from the concave mirror ; — and even such is 
the appropriate excellence of her chosen poet, of our 
own Shakespeare, — himself a nature humanized, a 125 
genial understanding devoting self-consciously a power 
and an implicit wisdom deeper even than our con- 
sciousness. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 

(1771-1832) 

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 
Song of the Bard 



Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said. 

This is my own, my native land ! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned. 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 5 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 
For him no Minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; 10 

Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self. 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 15 

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

II 

O Caledonia 1 stern and wild. 

Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 

406 



SCOTT 



407 



Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 

Land of the mountain and the flood, 20 

Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 

Can e'er untie the filial band. 

That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 

Still as I view each well-known scene, 

Think what is now, and what hath been, 23 

Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; 

And thus I love them better still, 

Even in extremity of ill. 

By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 30 

Though none should guide my feeble way; 

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 

Although it chill my withered cheek; 

Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 

Though there, forgotten and alone, 35 

The Bard may draw his parting groan. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES 
Lake Coriski?i 

A WHILE their route they silent made. 

As men who stalk for mountain-deer, 

Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, — 
'Saint Mary ! what a scene is here ! 

I've traversed many a mountain-strand. 

Abroad and in my native land. 

And it has been my lot to tread 

Where safety more than pleasure led; 

Thus, many a waste I've wandered o'er, 



408 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Clombe many a crag, cross' d many a moor, lo 

But, by my halidome, 
A scene so rude, so wild as this, 
Yet so sublime in barrenness, 
Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press. 

Where'er I happ'd to roam.' 15 

No marvel thus the Monarch spake; 

For rarely human eye has known 
A scene so stern as that dread lake. 

With its dark ledge of barren stone. 
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway 20 

Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way 

Through the rude bosom of the hill, 
And that each naked precipice. 
Sable ravine, and dark abyss. 

Tells of the outrage still. 25 

The wildest glen, but this, can show 
Some touch of Nature's genial glow; 
On high Benmore green mosses grow, 
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 

And copse or Cruchan-Ben; 30 

But here, — above, around, below. 

On mountain or in glen. 
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, 
Nor aught of vegetative power. 

The weary eye may ken. 35 

For all is rocks at random thrown. 
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, 

As if were here denied 
The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew. 
That clothe with many a varied hue 40 

The bleakest mountain-side. 



SCOTT 409 

And wilder, forward as they wound, 

Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. 

Huge terraces of granite black 

Afforded rude and cumber' d track; 45 

For from the mountain hoar, 
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, 
When yell'd the wolf, and fled the deer, 

Loose crags had toppled o'er; 
And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay 5c 

So that a stripling arm might sway 

A mass no host could raise, 
In Nature's rage at random thrown. 
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone 

On its precarious base. 55 

The evening mists, with ceaseless change, 
Now clothed the mountains' lofty range, 

Now left their foreheads bare. 
And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, 
Or on the sable waters curl'd, 60 

Or on the eddying breezes whirl' d. 

Dispersed in middle air. 
And oft, condensed, at once they lower. 
When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower 

Pours like a torrent down, 65 

And when return the sun's glad beams. 
Whiten' d with foam a thousand streams 
Leap from the mountain's crown. 

* This lake,' said Bruce, ' whose barriers drear 

Are precipices sharp and sheer, 70 

Yielding no track for goat or deer. 

Save the black shelves we tread, 
How term you its dark waves? and how 



4IO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Yon northern mountain's pathless brow, 

And yonder peak of dread, 75 

That to the evening sun uplifts 

The griesly gulfs and slaty rifts, 

Which seam its shiver'd head? ' — 
'Coriskin call the dark lake's name, 
Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim, 80 

From old Cuchullin, chief of fame. 
But bards, familiar in our isles 
Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles, 
Full oft their careless humours please 
By sportive names from scenes like these. 85 

I would old Torquil were to show 
His maidens with their breasts of snow, 
Or that my noble Liege were nigh 
To hear his Nurse sing lullaby ! 
(The Maids — tall cliffs with breakers white, 90 

The Nurse — a torrent's roaring might,) 
Or that your eye could see the mood 
Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude. 
When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood — 
'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames, 95 

For scenes so stern, fantastic names.' 



THE TALISMAN 
The Christian Knis-ht and the Sa7'acen Cavalier 



"Cs' 



The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its high- 
est point in the horizon, when a knight of the Red Cross, 
who had left his distant northern home, and joined the 
host of the crusaders in Palestine, was pacing slowly 



SCOTT 411 

along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity of the 5 
Dead Sea, where the waves of the Jordan pour themselves 
into an inland sea, from which there is no discharge of 
waters. 

Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with 
almost intolerable splendor, and all living nature seemed 10 
to have hidden itself from the rays, excepting the soli- 
tary figure which moved through the flitting sand at a 
foot's pace, and appeared the sole breathing thing on the 
wide surface of the plain. 

The dress of the rider and the accoutrements of his 15 
horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveller in such a 
country. A coat of linked mail, with long sleeves, plated 
gauntlets, and a steel breastplate had not been esteemed 
a sui^cient weight of armor; there was, also, his triangular 
shield suspended round his neck, and his barred helmet 20 
of steel, over which he had a hood and collar of mail, 
which was drawn around the warrior's shoulders and 
throat, and filled up the vacancy between the hauberk 
and the head-piece. His lower limbs were sheathed, 
like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs and 25 
thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which cor- 
responded with the gauntlets. 

A long, broad, straight-shaped, double-edged falchion, 
with a handle formed like a cross, corresponded with a 
stout poniard on the other side. The knight also bore, 30 
secured to his saddle, with one end resting on his stirrup, 
the long steel-headed lance, his own proper weapon, 
which, as he rode, projected backwards, and displayed 
its little pennoncel, to dally with the faint breeze, or 
drop in the dead calm. To this cumbrous equipment 35 
must be added a surcoat of embroidered cloth, much 
frayed and worn, which was thus far useful, that it ex- 



412 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

eluded the burning rays of the sun from the armor, which 
they would otherwise have rendered intolerable to the 
wearer. 40 

The surcoat bore, in several places, the arms of the 
owner, although much defaced. These seemed to be a 
couchant leopard, with the motto, ^'' I sleep — wake me 
not'" An outline of the same device might be traced 
on his shield, though many a blow had almost effaced 45 
the painting. The flat top of his cumbrous cylindrical 
helmet was unadorned with any crest. In retaining their 
own unwieldy defensive armor, the northern crusaders 
seemed to set at defiance the nature of the climate and 
country to which they were come to war. 50 

The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less 
massive and unwieldy than those of the rider. The 
animal had a heavy saddle plated with steel, uniting in 
front with a species of breastplate, and behind with 
defensive armor made to cover the loins. Then there 55 
was a steel axe, or hammer, called a mace-of-arms, and 
which hung to the saddle-bow; the reins were secured 
by chain work, and the front stall of the bridle was a 
steel plate, with apertures for the eyes and nostrils, 
having in the midst a short, sharp pike, projecting from 60 
the forehead of the horse like the horn of the fabulous 
unicorn. 

But habit had made the endurance of this load of 
panoply a second nature, both to the knight and his 
gallant charger. Numbers, indeed, of the western war- 65 
riors who hurried to Palestine died ere ' they became 
inured to the burning climate; but there were others to 
whom that climate became innocent, and even friendly, 
and among this fortunate number was the solitary horse- 
man who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea. 70 



SCOTT 413 

Nature, which cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon 
strength, fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much 
ease as if the meshes had been formed of cobwebs, had 
endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs, 
and which bade defiance to almost all changes of cli- 75 
mate, as well as to fatigue and privations of every kind. 
His disposition seemed, in some degree, to partake of 
the qualities of his bodily frame; and as the one pos- 
sessed great strength and endurance, united with the 
power of violent exertion, the other, under a calm and So 
undisturbed semblance, had much of the fiery and en- 
thusiastic love of glory which constituted the principal 
attribute of the renowned Norman line, and had ren- 
dered them sovereigns in every corner of Europe where 
they had drawn their adventurous swords. 85 

Nature had, however, her demands for refreshment 
and repose even on the iron frame and patient disposi- 
tion of the Knight of the Sleeping Leopard; and at 
noon, when the Dead Sea lay at some distance on his 
right, he joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm- 90 
trees, which arose beside the well which was assigned 
for his mid-day station. His good horse, too, which 
had plodded forward with the steady endurance of his 
master, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and 
quickened his pace, as if he snuffed afar off the living 95 
waters, which marked the place of repose and refresh- 
ment. But labor and danger were doomed to intervene 
ere the horse or horseman reached the desired spot. 

As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to 
fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm- 100 
trees, it seemed to him as if some object was moving 
among them. The distant form separated itself from 
the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced 



414 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

towards the knight with a speed which soon showed a 
mounted horseman, whom his turban, long spear, and 105 
green caftan floating in the wind, on his nearer ap- 
proach, proved to be a Saracen cavalier. "In the 
desert," saith an Eastern proverb, "no man meets a 
friend." The crusader was totally indifferent whether 
the infidel, who now approached on his gallant barb as no 
if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as friend or 
foe — perhaps, as a vowed champion of the cross, he 
might rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged 
his lance from his saddle, seized it with the right hand, 
placed it in rest with its point half elevated, gathered 115 
up the reins in the left, waked his horse's mettle with 
the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with 
the calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many 
contests. 

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab 120 
horseman, managing his steed more by his limbs and 
the inflection of his body than by any use of the reins 
which hung loose in his left hand; so that he was en- 
abled to wield the light round buckler of the skin of the 
rhinoceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he wore 125 
on his arm, swinging it as if he meant to oppose its 
slender circle to the formidable thrust of the Western 
lance. His own long spear was not couched or levelled 
like that of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle 
with his right hand, and brandished at arm's length 130 
above his head. As the cavalier approached his enemy 
at full career, he seemed to expect that the Knight of the 
Leopard would put his horse to the gallop to encounter 
him. 

But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the cus- 135 
toms of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his 



SCOTT 415 

good horse by any unnecessary exertion; and, on the 
contrary, made a dead halt, confident that if the enemy 
advanced to the actual shock, his own weight, and that 
of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient ad- 140 
vantage, without the additional momentum of rapid 
motion. Equally sensible and apprehensive of such a 
probable result, the Saracen cavalier, when he had ap- 
proached towards the Christian within twice the length 
of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable 145 
dexterity, and rode twice around his antagonist, who, 
turning without quitting his ground, and presenting his 
front constantly to his enemy, frustrated his attempts to 
attack him on an unguarded point; so that the Saracen, 
wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of 150 
a hundred yards. 

A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the 
heathen renewed the charge, and a second time was 
fain to retreat without coming to a close struggle. A 
third time he approached in the same manner, when the 155 
Christian knight, desirous to terminate this illusory war- 
fare, in which he might at length have been worn out by 
the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace 
which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a strong hand 
and unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the 160 
emir; for such, and not less, his enemy appeared. 

The Saracen was just aware of the formidable missile 
in time to interpose his light buckler betwixt the mace 
and his head; but the violence of the blow forced the 
buckler down on his turban, and though that defence 165 
also contributed to deaden its violence, the Saracen was 
beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian could avail 
himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprang from 
the ground, and, calling on his steed, which instantly re- 



4l6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

turned to his side, he leaped into his seat without touch- 170 
ing the stirrup, and regained all the advantage of which 
the Knight of the Leopard had hoped to deprive him. 

But the latter had in the meanwhile recovered his 
mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who remembered the 
strength and dexterity with which his antagonist had 175 
aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of reach of that 
weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force; while 
he showed his purpose of waging a distant warfare with 
missile weapons of his own. Planting his long spear in 
the sand at a distance from the scene of combat, he 180 
strung with great address a short bow, which he carried 
at his back, and, putting his horse to the gallop, once 
more described two or three circles of a wider extent 
than formerly, in the course of which he discharged six 
arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill that the 185 
goodness of his harness alone saved him from being 
wounded in as many places. The seventh shaft appar- 
ently found a less perfect part of the armor, and the 
Christian dropped heavily from his horse. 

But what was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dis- 190 
mounting to examine the condition of his prostrate 
enemy, he found himself suddenly within the grasp of 
the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to 
bring his enemy within his reach. Even in this deadly 
grapple, the Saracen was saved by his agility and pres- 195 
ence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt, in which 
the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and thus 
eluding his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed 
to watch his motions with the intelligence of a human 
being, and again rode off. But in the last encounter 200 
the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows, 
both of which were attached to the girdle, which he was 



SCOTT ^ty 

obliged to abandon. He had also lost his turban in the 
struggle. These disadvantages seemed to incline the 
Moslem to a truce : he approached the Christian with 205 
his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing 
attitude. 

"There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the 
lingua franca commonly used for the purpose of com- 
munication with the crusaders ; '* wherefore should there 210 
be war betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace be- 
twixt us." 

"I am well contented," answered he of the Couchant 
Leopard; "but what security dost thou offer that thou 
wilt observe the truce?" 215 

"The word of a follower of the Prophet was never 
broken," answered the emir. "It is thou, brave Naza- 
rene, from whom I should demand security, did 1 not 
know that treason seldom dwells with courage." 

The crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem 220 
made him ashamed of his own doubts. 

"By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand 
on the weapon as he spoke, " 1 will be true companion 
to thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain 
in company together." 225 

"By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God 
of the Prophet," replied his late foeman, "there is not 
treachery in my heart towards thee. And now wend we 
to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and 
the stream had hardly touched my lip when I was called 2jo 
to battle by thy approach." 

The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready 
and courteous assent; and the late foes, without an angry 
look or gesture of doubt, rode side by side to the little 
cluster of palm-trees. 235 

2 E 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

(1775-1864) 

A FIESOLAN IDYL 

Here, when precipitate Spring with one light bound 
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires; 
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night. 
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, 
And softer sighs, that know not what they want; 
Under a wall, beneath an orange tree 
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones 
Of sights in Fiesole right up above, 
While 1 was gazing a few paces off 
At what they seemed to show me with their nods. 
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, 
A gentle maid came down the garden steps 
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. 
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth 
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, 
(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents 
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts. 
And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
That would let drop without them her best stores. 
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love. 
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
To let all flowers live freely, and all die. 
Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart, 

418 



LAN DOR 419 

Among their kindred in their native place. 

I never pluck the rose; the violet's head 25 

Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 

And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup 

Of the pure lily hath between my hands 

Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold. 

I saw the light that made the glossy leaves 30 

More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek 

Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; 

I saw the foot, that although half-erect 

From its grey slippers, could not lift her up 

To what she wanted; I held down a branch, 35 

And gathered her some blossoms, since their hour 

Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies 

Of harder wing were working their way through 

And scattering them in fragments under foot. 

So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, 40 

Others, ere broken off, fell into shells. 

For such appear the petals when detacht. 

Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow. 

And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun; 

Yet every one her gown received from me 45 

Was fairer than the first; I thought not so. 

But so she praised them to reward my care, 

I said : * You find the largest. ' 

'This indeed,' 
Cried she, ^is large and sweet.' 50 

She held one forth, 
Whether for me to look at or to take 
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt. 
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part 55 

Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature 



420 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch 
To fall, and yet unfallen. 

She drew back 
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not 60 

The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, 
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 



IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom 
At Aulis, and when all beside the King 
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, 
' O father ! I am young and very happy. 
I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age 
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew 
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood 
While I was resting on her knee both arms 
And hitting it to make her mind my words, 
And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
Might he not also hear one word amiss, 
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ? ' 
The father placed his cheek upon her head. 
And tears dropt down it, but the king of men 
Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. 
'O father ! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st thou not 
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour. 
Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds. 
When it was inarticulate as theirs. 
And the down deadened it within the nest? ' 



LAND OR 421 

He moved her gently from him, silent still, 

And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, 

Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, 25 

*I thought to have laid down my hair before 

Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed 

Her polisht altar with my virgin blood; 

I thought to have selected the white flowers 

To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each 30 

By name, and with no sorrowful regret. 

Whether, since both my parents will the change, 

I might at Hymen's feet bend my dipt brow; 

And (after those who mind us girls the most) 

Adore our own Athena, that she would 35 

Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. 

But, father ! to see you no more, and see 

Your love, O father! go ere I am gone.' . . . 

Gently he moved her off, and drew her back. 

Bending his lofty head far over hers, \o 

And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. 

He turned away; not far, but silent still. 

She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh. 

So long a silence seemed the approach of death, 

And like it. Once again she raised her voice. 45 

'O father! if the ships are now detained. 

And all your vows move not the Gods above, 

When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer 

The less to them : and purer can there be 

Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer 50 

For her dear father's safety and success? ' 

A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. 

An aged man now entered, and without 

One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist 

Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw 5.5 



42 2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. 
Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried 
' O father ! grieve no more : the ships can sail. ' 



CHILDREN PLAYING IN A CHURCHYARD 

Children, keep up that harmless play, 
Your kindred angels plainly say 
By God's authority ye may. 

Be prompt his Holy word to hear, 
It teaches you to banish fear. 
The lesson lies on all sides near. 

Ten summers hence the sprightliest lad 
In Nature's face will look more sad, 
And ask where are those smiles she had? 

Ere many days the last will close. 

Play on, play on, for then (who knows?) 

Ye who play here may here repose. 



TO THE SISTER OF ELIA 

Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet awhile ! 

Again shall Elia's smile 
Refresh thy heart, when heart can ache no more; 

What is it we deplore? 

He leaves behind him, freed from griefs and years, 5 

Far worthier things than tears. 
The love of friends without a single foe; 

LTnequalled lot below ! 



LAND OR 423 

His gentle soul, his genius, these are thine; 

For these dost thou repine? 10 

He may have left the lowly walks of men; 

Left them he has, what then? 

Are not his footsteps followed by the eyes 

Of all the good and wise? 
Though the warm day is over, yet they seek 15 

Upon the holy peak 

Of his pure mind the roseate light that glows 

O'er death's perennial snows. 
Behold him ! from the region of the blest 

He speaks : he bids thee rest. 20 



ROBERT BROWNING 

There is delight in singing, though no one hear 

Beside the singer; and there is delight 

In praising, though the praiser sit alone 

And see the prais'd far off him, far above. 

Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's. 

Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, 

Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, 

No man hath walk'd along our roads with steps 

So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 

So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 

Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze 

Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 

Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 



424 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 

I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife, 
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; 

I warmed both hands before the fire of life, 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 



I know not whether I am proud, 
But this I know, I hate a crowd ; 
Therefore pray let me disengage 
My verses from the motley page. 
Where others, far more sure to please, 
Pour out their choral song with ease. 
And yet perhaps, if some should tire 
With too much froth or too much fire, 
There is an ear that may incline 
Even to words as dull as mine. 



The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings 

To crown the pearls where swells the broad-vein'd brow. 
Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings, 

They who have coveted may covet now. 

Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape uncrush'd. 
The peach of pulpy cheek and down mature. 

Where every voice (but bird's or child's) is hush'd, 
And every thought, like the brook nigh, runs pure. 



Death stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear : 

Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear. 



CHARLES LAMB 

(1775-1834) 

THE TWO RACES OF MEN 

The human species, according to the best theory I 
can form of it, is composed of two distinct races, the 
men who borrow, and the men who lend. To these two 
original diversities may be reduced all those impertinent 
classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, white men, 5 
black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, 
"Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock hither, 
and do naturally fall in with one or other of these pri- 
mary distinctions. The infinite superiority of the 
former, which I chose to designate as the g7-eat race, is 10 
discernible in their figure, port, and a certain instinctive 
sovereignty. The latter are born degraded. " He shall 
serve his brethren." There is something in the air of 
one of this cast, lean and suspicious; contrasting with 
the open, trusting, generous manners of the other. 15 

Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all 
ages — Alcibiades — Falstaff — Sir Richard Steele — our 
late incomparable Brinsley — what a family likeness in 
all -four ! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your bor- 20 
rower! what rosy gills! what a beautiful reliance on 
Providence doth he manifest, — taking no more thought 
than lilies ! What contempt for money, — accounting it 
(yours and mine especially) no better than dross ! What 

425 



426 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions of 25 
mewn and imim I or rather, what a noble simplification ' 
of language (beyond Tooke), resolving these supposed 
opposites into one clear, intelligible pronoun adjective! 
— What near approaches doth he make to the primitive 
community — to the extent of one half of the principle 30 
at least. 

He is the true taxer who " calleth all the world up to 
be taxed "; and the distance is as vast between him and 
one of us, as subsisted between the Augustan Majesty and 
the poorest obolary Jew that paid it tribute-pittance at 35 
Jerusalem ! — His exactions, too, have such a cheerful, 
voluntary air ! So far removed from your sour paro- 
chial or state-gatherers, — those ink-horn varlets, who 
carry their want of welcome in their faces ! He cometh 
to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt; 40 
confining himself to no set season. Every day is his 
Candlemas, or his feast of Holy Michael. He applieth 
the kne tormentum of a pleasant look to your purse, — 
which to that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, 
as naturally as the cloak of the traveller, for which sun 45 
and wind contended ! He is the true Propontic which 
never ebbeth ! The sea which taketh handsomely at each 
man's hand. In vain the victim, whom he delighteth 
to honour, struggles with destiny; he is in the net. 
Lend therefore cheerfully, O man ordained to lend — 50 
that thou lose not in the end, with thy worldly penny, 
the reversion promised. Combine not preposterously 
in thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and of 
Dives ! — but, when thou seest the proper authority com- 
ing, meet it smilingly, as it were half-way. Come, a 55 
handsome sacrifice ! See how light he makes of it ! 
Strain not courtesies with a noble enemy. 



LAMB 427 

Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my 
mind by the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq., 
who parted this life on Wednesday evening; dying, as 60 
he had lived, without much trouble. He boasted him- 
self a descendant from mighty ancestors of that name, 
who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. In 
his actions and sentiments he belied not the stock to 
which he pretended. Early in life he found himself in- 65 
vested with ample revenues; which, with that noble dis- 
interestedness which I have noticed as inherent in men 
of the great 7'ace, he took almost immediate measures 
entirely to dissipate and bring to nothing : for there is 
something revolting in the idea of a king holding a pri- 70 
vate purse; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. 
Thus furnished, by the very act of disfurnishment; get- 
ting rid of the cumbersome luggage of riches, more apt 
(as one sings) 

To slacken virtue, and abate her edge, 75 

Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise, 

he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enter- 
prise, "borrowing and to borrow! " 

In his periegesis, or triumphant progress throughout 
this island, it has been calculated that he laid a tythe 80 
part of the inhabitants under contribution. I reject 
this estimate as greatly exaggerated : — but having had 
the honour of accompanying my friend, divers times, in 
his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was 
greatly struck at first with the prodigious number of 85 
faces we met, who claimed a sort of respectful acquaint- 
ance with us. He was one day so obliging as to explain 
the phenomenon. It seems these were his tributaries; 
feeders of his exchequer; gentlemen, his good friends 



428 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

(as he was pleased to express himself), to whom he 90 
had occasionally been beholden for a loan. Their mul- 
titudes did no way disconcert him. He rather took a 
pride in numbering them ; and, with Comus, seemed 
pleased to be " stocked wdth so fair a herd." 

With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived 95 
to keep his treasury always empty. He did it by force 
of an aphorism, which he had often in his mouth, that 
"money kept longer than three days stinks." So he 
made use of it while it was fresh. A good part he drank 
away (for he was an excellent toss-pot,) some he gave 100 
away, the rest he threw away, literally tossing and hurl- 
ing it violently from him — as boys do burrs, or as if it 
had been infectious, — into ponds, or ditches, or deep 
holes, inscrutable cavities of the earth; — or he would 
bury it (where he w^ould never seek it again) by a river's 105 
side under some bank, w^hich (he would facetiously ob- 
serve) paid no interest — but out away from him it must 
go peremptorily, as Hagar's offspring into the wilderness, 
while it was sweet. He never missed it. The streams 
were perennial which fed his fisc. When new supplies no 
became necessary, the first person that had the felicity to 
fall in wdth him, friend or stranger, was sure to contrib- 
ute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an 2indeniable way 
with him. He had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick 
jovial eye, a bald forehead, just touched with grey 115 
{cana fides). He anticipated no excuse, and found 
none. And, waiving for a w^hile my theory as to the 
gj'eat race, I would put it to the most untheorising 
reader, w^ho may at times have disposable coin in his 
pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kindli- 120 
ness of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describ- 
ing, than to say no to a poor petitionary rogue Cyour 



LAMB 42g 

bastard borrower), who, by his mumping visnomy, tells 
you that he expects nothing better; and, therefore, whose 
preconceived notions and expectations you do in reality 125 
so much less shock in the refusal. 

When I think of this man; his fiery glow of heart; his 
swell of feeling; how magnificent, how idea/ he was; 
how great at the midnight hour; and when I compare 
with him the companions with whom I have associated 130 
since, I grudge the saving of a few idle ducats, and 
think that I am fallen into the society of lenders, and 
little men. 

To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased in 
leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a class 135 
of alienators more formidable than that which I have 
touched upon; I mean your borrowers of books — those 
mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry of 
shelves, and creators of odd volumes. There is Com- 
berbatch, matchless in his depredations ! 140 

That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a 
great eye-tooth knocked out — (you are now with me in 
my little back study in Bloomsbury, Reader!) — with 
the huge Switzer-like tomes on each side (like the 
Guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, guardant of 145 
nothing) once held the tallest of my folios. Opera Bona- 
veiiturcB, choice and massy divinity, to which its two 
supporters (school divinity also, but of a lesser calibre, 

— Bellarmine, and Holy Thomas), showed but as dwarfs, 

— itself an Ascapart! — that Comberbatch abstracted 150 
upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, 

I confess, for me to suffer by than to refute, namely, 
that " the title to property in a book (my Bonaventure, 
for instance) is in exact ratio to the claimant's powers 
of understanding and appreciating the same." Should 155 



430 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

he go on acting upon this theory, which of our shelves 
is safe? 

The slight vacuum in the left-hand case — two shelves 
from the ceiling — scarcely distinguishable but by the 
quick eye of a loser — was whilom the commodious rest- i6o 
ing-place of Browne on Urn Burial. C. will hardly 
allege that he knows more about that treatise than I do, 
who introduced it to him, and was indeed the first (of 
the moderns) to discover its beauties — but so have I 
known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the pres- 165 
ence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than him- 
self. — Just below, Dodsley's dramas want their fourth 
volume, where Vittoria Corombona is ! The remainder 
nine are as distasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the 
Fates boii'owed Hector. Here stood the Anatomy of 170 
Melancholy, in sober state. — There loitered the Com- 
plete Angler; quiet as in life, by some stream side. In 
yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower-volume, with 
"eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate. 

One justice I must do my friend, that if he some- 175 
times, like the sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another 
time, sea-like, he throws up as rich an equivalent to 
match it. I have a small under-collection of this 
nature (my friend's gatherings in his various calls), 
picked up, he has forgotten at what odd places, and de- 180 
posited with as little memory at mine. I take in these 
orphans, the twice-deserted. These proselytes of the 
gate are welcome as the true Hebrews. There they 
stand in conjunction; natives, and naturalised. The 
latter seem as little disposed to inquire out their true 185 
lineage as I am. — I charge no warehouse-room for these 
deodands, nor shall ever put myself to the ungentlemanly 
trouble of advertising a sale of them to pay expenses. 



LAMB 43 1 

To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and mean- 
ing in it. You are sure that he will make one hearty 190 
meal on your viands, if he can give no account of the 
platter after it. But what moved thee, wayward, spite- 
ful K., to be so importune to carry off with thee, in 
spite of tears and adjurations to thee to forbear, the 
Letters of that princely woman, the thrice noble Mar- 195 
garet Newcastle — knowing at the time, and knowing 
that I knew also, thou most assuredly wouldst never 
turn over one leaf of the illustrious folio : — what but 
the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish love of 
getting the better of thy friend? — Then, worst cut of 200 
all ! to transport it with thee to the Galilean land — 

Unworthy land to harbour such a sweetness, 

A virtue in which all ennobling thoughts dwelt, 

Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's wonder ! 

— hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and 205 
fancies, about thee, to keep thee merry, even as thou 
keepest all companies with thy quips and mirthful tales? 
Child of the Green-room, it was unkindly done of thee. 
Thy wife, too, that part-French, better-part-English- 
woman ! — that she could fix upon no other treatise to 210 
bear away, in kindly token of remembering us, than the 
works of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook — of which no 
Frenchman, nor woman of France, Italy, or England, 
was ever by nature constituted to comprehend a tittle ! 
Was there not Zimmerman on Solitude? 215 

Reader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate 
collection, be shy of showing it; or if thy heart over- 
floweth to lend them, lend thy books; but let it be to 
such a one as S. T. C. — he will return them (generally 
anticipating the time appointed) with usury; enriched 220 



432 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

with annotations, tripling their value. I have had ex- 
perience. Many are these precious MSS. of his — (in 
matter oftentimes, and almost in quantity not unfre- 
guently, vying with the originals) in no very clerkly 
hand — legible in my Daniel; in old Burton; in Sir 225 
Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogitations of the 
Greville, now, alas ! wandering in Pagan lands. — I 
counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library, against 
S. T. C. 



A DISSERTATION ON ROAST PIG 

Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend 
M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for 
the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, claw- 
ing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do 
in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely 5 
hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter 
of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind 
of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the cooks' 
holiday. The manuscript goes on to say that the art of 
roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder 10 
brother), was accidentally discovered in the manner 
following. 

The swine-herd Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods 
one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for his 
hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son, Bo-bo, 15 
a great lubberly boy, who, being fond of playing with 
fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some 
sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling 
quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their 
poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together 20 
with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian makeshift of a 



LAMB 



433 



building, you may think it), what was of much more 
importance, a fine litter of new-farrowed pigs, not less 
than nine in number, perished. China pigs have been 
esteemed a luxury all over the East from the remotest 25 
periods that we read of. Bo-bo was in the utmost con- 
sternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of 
the tenement, which his father and he could easily build 
up again with a few dry branches and the labor of an hour 
or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. 30 

While he was thinking what he should say to his 
father, and wringing his hands over the smoking rem- 
nants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor assailed 
his nostrils unlike any scent which he had before ex- 
perienced. What could it proceed from? Not from y^ 
the burned cottage — he had smelled that smell before; 
indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the 
kind which had occurred through the negligence of this 
unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble 
that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premoni- 40 
tory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether 
lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down 
to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He 
burned his fingers, and to cool them he applied them, 
in his booby fashion, to his mouth. Some of the crumbs 45 
of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, 
and for the first time in his life (in the world's life in- 
deed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted — 
crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It 
did not burn him so much now; still he licked his fingers 50 
from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his 
slow understanding that it was the pig that smelled so, 
and the pig that tasted so delicious; and, surrendering 
himself up to the new-born pleasure, he fell to tearing 

2 F 



434 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh 55 
next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his 
beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking 
rafters, armed with retributory cudgel, and, finding how 
affairs stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's 
shoulders as thick as hailstones, which Bo-bo heeded 60 
not any more than if they had been flies. The tickling 
pleasure which he experienced in his lower regions had 
rendered him quite callous to any inconveniences he 
might feel in those remote quarters. His father might 
lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig till he 65 
had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little 
more sensible of his situation, something like the fol- 
lowing dialogue ensued : 

"You graceless whelp, what have you got there devour- 
ing? Is it not enough that you have burned me down 70 
three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to 
you ! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what? 
What have you got there, I say? " 

" O father, the pig, the pig ! Do come and taste how 
nice the burnt pig eats ! " 75 

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his 
son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a 
son that should eat burnt pig. Bo-bo, whose scent was 
wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out 
another pig, and, fairly rending it asunder, thrust the 80 
lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still 
shouting out, " Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father ! only 
taste! — O Lord!" — with such-like barbarous ejacula- 
tions, cramming all the while as if he would choke. 

Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the 85 
abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put 
his son to death for an unnatural young monster, when 



LAMB 435 

the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his 
son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his 
turn tasted some of its flavor, which, make what sour 90 
mouths he would for a pretence, proved not altogether 
displeasing to him. In conclusion (for the manuscript 
here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly sat 
down to the mess, and never left off till they had de- 
spatched all that remained of the litter. 95 

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, 
for the neighbors would certainly have stoned them for 
a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of im- 
proving upon the good meat which God had sent them. 
Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed 100 
that Ho-ti's cottage was burned down now more fre- 
quently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time 
forward. Some would break out in broad day, others 
in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so 
sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze; and Ho-ti 105 
himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of 
chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to 
him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible 
mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to 
take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize no 
town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself 
produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, 
when the foreman of the jury begged that some of the 
burned pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might 
be handed into the box. He handled it, and they all 115 
handled it, and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and 
his father had done before them, and nature prompting 
to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all 
the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever 
given — to the surprise of the whole court, townsfolk, 120 



436 ' FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Strangers, reporters, and all present — without leaving 
the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they 
brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty. 

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the 
manifest iniquity of the decision; and when the court 125 
was dismissed went privily and bought up all the pigs 
that could be had for love or money. In a few days 
his lordship's town-house was observed to be on fire. 
The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be 
seen but fire in every direction; fuel and pigs grew 130 
enormously dear all over the district. The insurance 
ofiEices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter 
and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very 
science of architecture would in no long time be lost to 
the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, 135 
till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, 
like our Locke, who made a discovery that the flesh of 
swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked 
{burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of con- 
suming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the 140 
rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit 
came in a century or two later — I forget in whose dy- 
nasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, 
do the most useful, and seemingly the most obvious, 
arts make their way among mankind. 145 

Without placing too implicit faith in the account 
above given, it must be agreed that if a worthy pretext 
for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire 
(especially in these days) could be assigned in favor of 
any culinary object, that pretext and excuse might be 150 
found in Roast Pig. 

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis, I 
will maintain it to be the most delicate — princeps ob- 



_ LAMB 437 

soniorum. I speak not of your grown porkers — things 
beween pig and pork, those hobbydehoys — but a young 155 
and tender suckling, under a moon old, guiltless as yet 
of the sty; with no original speck of the amor immicn- 
diticE, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet 
manifest; his voice as yet not broken, but something 
between a childish treble and a grumble, the mild fore- 160 
runner, or prceludiinn, of a grunt. 

He must be 7'oasted. I am not ignorant that our ances- 
tors ate them seethed, or boiled, but what a sacrifice of 
the exterior tegument ! 

There is no flavor comparable, I will contend, to that 165 
of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over-roasted, 
C7'ackling, as it is well called : the very teeth are invited 
to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in over- 
coming the coy, brittle resistance, with the adhesive 
oleaginous — O, call it not fat! but an indefinable sweet- 170 
ness growing up to it, the tender blossoming of fat, fat 
cropped in the bud, taken in the shoot, in the first in- 
nocence, the cream and quintessence of the child-pig's 
yet pure food — the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal 
manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so 175 
blended and running into each other, that both together 
make but one ambrosian result, or common substance. 

Behold him while he is "doing" — it seemeth rather 
a refreshing warmth than a scorching heat, that he is so 
passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string! iSo 
Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of 
that tender age I he hath wept out his pretty eyes — 
radiant jellies — shooting stars. See him in the dish, his 
second cradle, how meek helieth! — wouldst thou have 
had this innocence grow up to the grossness and indocil- 185 
ity which too often accompany maturer swinehood? . . . 



WILLIAM HAZLITT 

(1778-1830) 

A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING 

A Reminiscence 

"This life is best, if quiet life is best. 

Food, warmth, sleep, and a book; these are all I at 
present ask — the idtima Thule of my wandering desires. 
Do you not then wish for 

" A friend in your retreat, 
Whom you may whisper, solitude is sweet ? 5 

Expected, well enough : — • gone, still better. Such at- 
tractions are strengthened by distance. Nor a mistress? 
"Beautiful mask! I know thee ! " When I can judge 
of the heart from the face, of the thoughts from the lips, 
I may again trust myself. Instead of these give me the 10 
robin red-breast, pecking the crumbs at the door, or 
warbling on the leafless spray, the same glancing form 
that has followed me wherever I have been, and " done 
its spiriting gently; " or the rich notes of the thrush that 
startle the ear of winter, and seem to have drunk up 15 
the full draught of joy from the very sense of contrast. 
To these I adhere, and am faithful, for they are true to 
me; and, dear in themselves, are dearer for the sake of 
what is departed, leading me back (by the hand) to that 
dreaming world, in the innocence of which they sat and 20 

438 



HAZLITT 



439 



made sweet music, waking the promise of future years, 
and answered by the eager throbbings of my own breast. 
But now "the credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er," 
and I turn back from the world that has deceived me, 
to nature that lent it a false beauty, and that keeps up 25 
the illusion of the past. As I quaff my libations of tea 
in a morning, I love to watch the clouds sailing from 
the west, and fancy that " the spring comes slowly up this 
way." In this hope, while "fields are dank and ways 
are mire," I follow the same direction to a neighbouring 30 
wood, where, having gained the dry, level greensward, I 
can see my way for a mile before me, closed in on each 
side by copse-wood, and ending in a point of light more 
or less brilliant, as the day is bright or cloudy. What 
a walk is this to me ! I have no need of book or com- 35 
panion — the days, the hours, the thoughts of my youth 
are at my side, and blend with the air that fans my 
cheek. Here I can saunter for hours, bending my eye 
forward, stopping and turning to look back, thinking to 
strike off into some less trodden path, yet hesitating to 40 
quit the one I am in, afraid to snap the brittle threads 
of memory. I remark the shining trunks and slender 
branches of the birch trees, waving in the idle breeze; 
or a pheasant springs up on whirring wing; or I recall 
the spot where I once found a w^ood-pigeon at the foot of 45 
a tree, weltering in its gore, and think how many seasons 
have flown since "it left its little life in air." Dates, 
names, faces come back — to what purpose ? Or why 
think of them now? Or rather why not think of them 
oftener? We walk through life, as through a narrow 50 
path, with a thin curtain drawn around it; behind are 
ranged rich portraits, airy harps are strung — yet we will 
not stretch forth our hands and lift aside the veil, to 



440 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

catch glimpses of the one, or sweep the chords of the 
other. As in a theatre, when the old-fashioned green 55 
curtain drew up, groups of figures, fantastic dresses, 
laughing faces, rich banquets, stately columns, gleaming 
vistas appeared beyond; so we have only at any time to 
"peep through the blanket of the past," to possess our- 
selves at once of all that has regaled our senses, that is 60 
stored up in our memory, that has struck our fancy, 
that has pierced our hearts : — yet to all this we are in- 
different, insensible, and seem intent only on the pres- 
ent vexation, the future disappointment. If there is a 
Titian hanging up in the room with me, I scarcely re- 65 
gard it: how then should I be expected to strain the 
mental eye so far, or to throw down, by the magic spells 
of the will, the stone-walls that enclose it in the Louvre? 
There is one head there of which I have often thought, 
when looking at it, that nothing should ever disturb me 70 
again, and 1 would become the character it represents 
— such perfect calmness and self-possession reigns in it ! 
Why do I not hang an image of this in some dusky cor- 
ner of my brain, and turn an eye upon it ever and anon, 
as I have need of some such talisman to calm my troubled 75 
thoughts? The attempt is fruitless, if not natural; or, 
like that of the French, to hang garlands on the grave 
and to conjure back the dead by miniature pictures of 
them while living ! It is only some actual coincidence 
or local association that tends, without violence, to %q 
"open all the cells where memory slept." I can easily, 
by stooping over the long-sprent grass and clay cold 
clod, recall the tufts of primroses, or purple hyacinths, 
that formerly grew on the same spot, and cover the bushes 
with leaves and singing-birds, as they were eighteen 85 
summers ago; or prolonging my walk and hearing the 



HAZLITT 441 

sighing gale rustle through a tall, straight wood at the 
end of it, can fancy that I distinguish the cry of hounds, 
and the fatal group issuing from it, as in the tale of 
Theodore and Honoria. A moaning gust of wind aids 90 
the belief; I look once more to see whether the trees 
before me answer to the idea of the horror-stricken 
grove, and an air-built city towers over their grey tops. 

" Of all the cities in Romanian lands, 
The chief and most renown'd Ravenna stands." 95 

I return home resolved to read the entire poem through, 
and, after dinner, drawing my chair to the fire, and hold- 
ing a small print close to my eyes, launch into the full 
tide of Dryden's couplets (a stream of sound), compar- 
ing his didactic and descriptive pomp with the simple 100 
pathos and picturesque truth of Boccaccio's story, and 
tasting with a pleasure, which none but an habitual 
reader can feel, some quaint examples of pronunciation 
in this accomplished versifier. 

" Which when Honoria view'd, 105 

The fresh iuipidse her former fright renew'd." 

"And made th' insult, which in his grief appears, 
The means to mourn thee with my pious tears." 

These trifling instances of the wavering and unsettled 
state of the language give double effect to the firm and no 
stately march of the verse, and make me dwell with a 
sort of tender interest on the difficulties and doubts of 
an earlier period of literature. They pronounced words 
then in a manner which we should laugh at now; and 
they wrote verse in a manner which we can do anything 115 
but laugh at. The pride of a new acquisition seems to 
give fresh confidence to it; to impel the rolling syllables 



442 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

through the moulds provided for them, and to overflow 
the envious bounds of rh3^me into time-honoured triplets. 

What sometimes surprises me in looking back to the 120 
past, is, with the exception already stated, to find myself 
so little changed in the time. The same images and 
trains of thoughts stick by me : I have the same tastes, 
likings, sentiments, and wishes that I had then. One 
great ground of confidence and support has, indeed, 125 
been struck from under my feet; but I have made it up 
to myself by proportionable pertinacity of opinion. 
The success of the great cause, to which I had vowed 
myself, was to me more than all the world: I had a 
strength in its strength, a resource which I knew not of, 130 
till it failed me for the second time. 

" Fall'n was Glenartny's stately tree ! 
Oh ! ne'er to see Lord Ronald more ! " 



ENGLISH HUMOUR 

Now it appears to me that the English are (or were) 
just at that mean point between intelligence and obtuse- 
ness which must produce the most abundant and happiest 
crop of humour. Absurdity and singularity glide over 
the French mind without jarring or jostling with it; or 5 
they evaporate in levity; with the Italians they are lost 
in indolence or pleasure. The ludicrous takes hold of 
the English imagination, and clings to it with all its 
ramifications. We resent any difference or peculiarity 
of appearance at first, and yet, having not much malice 10 
at our hearts, we are glad to turn it into a jest — we are 
liable to be offended, and as willing to be pleased — 



HAZLITT ' 443 

struck with oddity from not knowing what to make of it, 
we wonder and burst out a laughing at the eccentricity 
of others, while we follow our own bent from wilfulness 15 
or simplicity, and thus afford them, in our turn, matter 
for the indulgence of the comic vein. It is possible 
that a greater refinement of manners may give birth to 
finer distinctions of satire and a nicer tact for the ridicu- 
lous; but our insular situation and character are, I should 20 
say, most likely to foster, as they have in fact fostered, 
the great quantity of natural and striking humour, in 
spite of our plodding tenaciousness, and want both of 
gaiety and quickness of perception. A set of raw re- 
cruits with their awkward movements and unbending 25 
joints are laughable enough; but they cease to be so 
when they have once been drilled into discipline and 
uniformity. So it is with nations that lose their angular 
points and grotesque qualities with education and inter- 
course; but it is in a mixed state of manners that comic 30 
humour chiefly flourishes, for, in order that the drollery 
may not be lost, we must have spectators of the pass- 
ing scene who are able to appreciate and embody its 
most remarkable features — wits as well as /?uf/s for 
ridicule. I shall mention two names in this depart- 35 
ment which may serve to redeem the national character 
from absolute dulness and solemn pretence — Fielding 
and Hogarth. . . . Lord Byron was in the habit of 
railing at the spirit of our good old comedy, and of 
abusing Shakespeare's Clowns and Fools, which he said 40 
the refinement of the French and Italian stage would not 
endure, and which only our grossness and puerile taste 
could tolerate. In this I agree with him; and it is />ci/ 
to my purpose. I flatter myself that we are almost the 
only people who understand and relish nonsense. We 45 



444 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

are not "merry and wise," but indulge our mirth to 
excess and folly. When we trifle, we trifle in good 
earnest; and having once relaxed our hold of the helm, 
drift idly down the stream, and, delighted with the 
change, are tossed about "by every little breath" of 50 
whim or caprice, 

" That under heaven is blown." 

All we then want is to proclaim a truce with reason, 
and to be pleased with as little expense of thought or 
pretension to wisdom as possible. This licensed fooling 55 
is carried to its very utmost length in Shakespeare, and 
in some other of our elder dramatists, without perhaps 
sufificient warrant or the same excuse. Nothing can 
justify this extreme relaxation but extreme tension. 
Shakespeare's trifling does indeed tread upon the very 60 
borders of vacancy; his meaning often hangs by the 
very slenderest threads. For this he might be blamed 
if it did not take away our breath to follow his eagle 
flights, or if he did not at other times make the cordage 
of our hearts crack. After our heads ache with think- 65 
ing, it is fair to play the fool. The clowns were as 
proper an appendage to the gravity of our antique lit- 
erature as fools and dwarfs were to the stately dignity 
of courts and noble houses in former days. Of all 
people, they have the best right to claim a total exemp- 70 
tion from rules and rigid formality, who, when they 
have anything of importance to do, set about it with 
the greatest earnestness and perseverance, and are gen- 
erally grave and sober to a proverb. Swift, who wrote 
more idle or nonsense verses than any man, was the 75 
severest of moralists; and his feelings and observations 
moibidly acute. 



LEIGH HUNT 

(1784 1859) 

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 
Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; 
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
With those who think the candles come too soon, 
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; 

O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, 

One to the fields, the other to the hearth, i 

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong 

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth 

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song — 

In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth. 



ON THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION 

There is not a more unthinking way of talking than 
to say such and such pains and pleasures are only imag- 
inary, and therefore to be got rid of or undervalued ac- 
cordingty. There is nothing imaginary in the common 
acceptation of the word. The logic of Moses in the 

445 



446 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Vicar of Wakefield is good argument here : " Whatever 
is, is." Whatever touches us, whatever moves us, does 
touch and does move us. We recognise the reality of it, 
as we do that of a hand in the dark. We might as well 
say that a sight which makes us laugh, or a blow which lo 
brings tears into our eyes, is imaginary, as that anything 
else is imaginary which makes us laugh or weep. We 
can only judge of things by their effects. Our percep- 
tion constantly deceives us, in things with which we sup- 
pose ourselves perfectly conversant; but our reception 15 
of their effect is a different matter. Whether we are 
materialists or immaterialists, whether things be about 
us or within us, whether we think the sun is a substance, 
or only the image of a divine thought, an idea, a thing 
imaginary, we are equally agreed as to the notion of its 20 
warmth. But on the other hand, as this warmth is felt 
differently by different temperaments, so what we call 
imaginary things affect different minds. What we have 
to do is not to deny their effect, because we do not feel 
in the same proportion, or whether we even feel it at 25 
all ; but to see whether our neighbours may not be moved. 
If they are, there is, to all intents and purposes, a mov- 
ing cause. But we do not see it? No; — neither per- 
haps do they. They only feel it; they are only sentient, 
— a word which implies the sight given to the imagina- 30 
tion by the feelings. But what do you mean, we may 
ask in return, by seeing? Some rays of light come in 
contact with the eye; they bring a sensation to it; in a 
word, they touch it; and the impression left by this 
touch we call sight. How far does this differ in effect 35 
from the impression left by any other touch, however 
mysterious? An ox knocked down by a butcher, and a 
man knocked down by a fit of apoplexy, equally feel 



HUNT 447 

themselves compelled to drop. The tickling of a straw 
and of a comedy equally move the muscles about the 40 
mouth. The look of a beloved eye will so thrill the 
frame, that old philosophers have had recourse to a 
doctrine of beams and radiant particles flying from one 
sight to another. In fine, what is contact itself, and 
why does it affect us? There is no one cause more 45 
mysterious than another, if we look into it. 

Nor does the question concern us like moral causes. 
We may be content to know the earth by its fruits; but 
how to increase and improve them is a more attractive 
study. If, instead of saying that the causes which moved 50 
in us this or that pain or pleasure were imaginary, people 
were to say that the causes themselves were removable, 
they would be nearer the truth. When a stone trips us 
up, we do not fall to disputing its existence : we put it 
out of the way. In like manner, when we suffer from 55 
what is called an imaginary pain, our business is not to 
canvass the reality of it. Whether there is any cause or 
not in that or any other perception, or whether every- 
thing consists not in what is called effect, it is sufficient 
for us that the effect is real. Our sole business is to re- 60 
move those second causes, which always accompany the 
original idea. As in deliriums, for instance, it would 
be idle to go about persuading the patient that he did 
not behold the figures he says he does. He might 
reasonably ask us, if he could, how we know anything 65 
about the matter; or how we can be sure that in the 
infinite wonders of the universe certain realities may 
not become apparent to certain eyes, whether diseased 
or not. Our business would be to put him into that 
state of health in which human beings are not diverted 70 
from their offices and comforts by a liability to such 



448 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

imaginations. The best reply to his question would be, 
that such a morbidity is clearly no more a fit state for a 
human being than a disarranged or incomplete state of 
works is for a watch; and that seeing the general ten- 75 
dency of nature to this completeness or state of comfort, 
we naturally conclude that the imaginations in question, 
whether substantial or not, are at least not of the same 
lasting or prevailing description. 

We do not profess metaphysics. We are indeed so So 
little conversant with the masters of that art, that we 
are never sure whether we are using even its proper 
terms. All that we may know on the subject comes to 
us from some reflection and some experience; and this 
all may be so little as to make a metaphysician smile; 85 
which, if he be a true one, he will do good-naturedly. 
The pretender will take occasion, from our very confes- 
sion, to say that we know nothing. Our faculty, such as 
it is, is rather instinctive than reasoning; rather physical 
than metaphysical; rather sentient because it loves 90 
much, than because it knows much; rather calculated 
by a certain retention of boyhood, and by its wanderings 
in the green places of thought, to light upon a piece of 
the old golden world, than to tire ourselves, and con- 
clude it unattainable, by too wide and scientific a 95 
search. We pretend to see farther than none but the 
worldly and the malignant. And yet those who see 
farther may not see so well. We do not blind our eyes 
with looking upon the sun in the heavens. We believe 
it to be there, but we find its light upon earth also; 100 
and we would lead humanity, if we could, out of misery 
and coldness into the shine of it. Pain might still be 
there; must be so, as long as we are mortal; 

" For oft we still must weep, since we are human : " 



HUNT 449 

but it should be pain for the sake of others, which is 105 
noble; not unnecessary pain inflicted by or upon them, 
which it is absurd not to remove. The very pains of 
mankind struggle towards pleasures; and such pains as 
are proper for them have this inevitable accompaniment 
of true humanity, — that they cannot but realise a certain no 
gentleness of enjoyment. Thus the true bearer of pain 
would come round to us; and he would not grudge us a 
share of his burden, though in taking from his trouble 
it might diminish his pride. Pride is but a bad pleas- 
ure at the expense of others. The great object of hu- 115 
manity is to enrich everybody. If it is a task destined 
not to succeed, it is a good one from its very nature; 
and fulfils at least a glad destiny of its own. To look 
upon it austerely is in reality the reverse of austerity. 
It is only such an impatience of the want of pleasure as 120 
leads us to grudge it in others; and this impatience 
itself, if the sufferer knew how to use it, is but another 
impulse, in the general yearning, towards an equal wealth 
of enjoyment. 

But we shall be getting into other discussions. — The 125 
ground-work of all happiness is health. Take care of 
this ground; and the doleful imaginations that come to 
warn us against its abuse will avoid it. Take care of 
this ground, and let as many glad imaginations throng to 
it as possible. Read the magical works of the poets, 130 
and they will come. If you doubt their existence, ask 
yourself whether you feel pleasure at the idea of them; 
whether you are moved into delicious smiles, or tears as 
delicious. If you are, the result is the same to you, 
whether they exist or not. It is not mere words to say 135 
that he who goes through a rich man's park, and sees 
things in it which never bless the mental eyesight of the 

2G 



450 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

possessor, is richer than he. He is richer. More re- 
sults of pleasure come home to him. The ground is 
actually more fertile to him: the place haunted with 140 
finer shapes. He has more servants to come at his call, 
and administer to him with full hands. Knowledge, 
sympathy, imagination, are all divining-rods, with which 
he discovers treasure. Let a painter go through the 
grounds, and he will see not only the general colours of 145 
green and brown, but their combinations and contrasts, 
and the modes in which they might again be combined 
and contrasted. He will also put figures in the land- 
scape if there are none there, flocks and herds, or a 
solitary spectator, or Venus lying with her white body 150 
among the violets and primroses. Let a musician go 
through, and he will hear "differences discreet" in the 
notes of the birds and the lapsing of the water-fall. He 
will fancy a serenade of wind instruments in the open 
air at a lady's window, with a voice rising through it; 155 
or the horn of the hunter; or the musical cry of the 

hounds, 

" Matched in mouth Hke bells, 
Each under each ; " 

or a solitary voice in a bower, singing for an expected 160 
lover; or the chapel organ, waking up like the fountain 
of the winds. Let a poet go through the grounds and he 
will heighten and increase all these sounds and images. 
He will bring the colours from heaven, and put an 
unearthly meaning into the voice. He will have 165 
stories of the sylvan inhabitants; will shift the popu- 
lation through infinite varieties; will put a sentiment 
upon every sight and sound; will be human, romantic, 
supernatural; will make all nature send tribute into that 
spot. 170 



HUNT 45 1 

We may say of the love of nature what Shakespeare 
says of another love, that it 

" Adds a precious seeing to the eye." 

And we may say also, upon the like principle, that it 
adds a precious hearing to the ear. This and imagina- 175 
tion, which ever follows upon it, are the two purifiers of 
our sense, which rescue us from the deafening babble of 
common cares, and enable us to hear all the affectionate 
voices of earth and heaven. The starry orbs, lapsing 
about in their smooth and sparkling dance, sing to us. 180 
The brooks talk to us of solitude. The birds are the 
animal spirits of nature, carolling in the air, like a care- 
less lass. 

" The gentle gales, 

Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 185 

Native perfumes; and whisper whence they stole 
Those balmy spoils." — Paradise Lost, book iv. 

The poets are called creators, because with their magical 
words they bring forth to our eyesight the abundant 
images and beauties of creation. They put them there, 190 
if the reader pleases; and so are literally creators. But 
whether put there or discovered, whether created or in- 
vented (for invention means nothing but finding out), 
there they are. If they touch us, they exist to as much 
purpose as anything else which touches us. If a passage 195 
in King Lear brings the tears into our eyes, it is real 
as the touch of a sorrowful hand. If the flow of a song 
of Anacreon's intoxicates us, it is as true to a pulse 
within us as the wine he drank. We hear not their 
sounds with ears, nor see their sights with eyes; but we 200 
hear and see both so truly, that we are moved with pleas- 
ure; and the advantage, nay even the test, of seeing and 
hearing, at any time, is not in the seeing and hearing, 



452 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

but in the ideas we realise, and the pleasure we derive. 
Intellectual objects, therefore, inasmuch as they come 205 
home to us, are as true a part of the stock of nature as 
visible ones; and they are infinitely more abundant. 
Between the tree of a country clown and the tree of a 
Milton or Spenser, what a difference in point of produc- 
tiveness ! Between the plodding of a sexton through a 210 
church-yard and the walk of a Gray, what a difference ! 
What a difference between the Bermudas of a ship- 
builder and the Bermoothes of Shakespeare ! the isle 

" Full of noises, 
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not;" 215 

the isle of elves and fairies, that chased the tide to and 
fro on the sea-shore ; of coral-bones and the knell of 
sea-nymphs; of spirits dancing on the sands, and sing- 
ing amidst the hushes of the wind; of Caliban, whose 
brute nature enchantment had made poetical; of Ariel, 220 
who lay in cowslip bells, and rode upon the bat; of 
Miranda, who wept when she saw Ferdinand work so 
hard, and begged him to let her help; telling him, 

" I am your wife, if you will marry me ; 
If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow 225 

You may deny me; but I'll be your servant, 
Whether you will or no." 

Such are the discoveries which the poets make for us; 
worlds to which that of Columbus was but a handful of 
brute matter. America began to be richer for us the 230 
other day, when Humboldt came back and told us of its 
luxuriant and gigantic vegetation; of the myriads of 
shooting lights, which revel at evening in the southern 
sky; and of that grand constellation, at which Dante 
seems to have made so remarkable a guess {Purgatorio, 235 
cant, i., V. 22). The natural warmth of the Mexican 



HUNT 453 

and Peruvian genius, set free from depotism, will soon 
do all the rest for it; awaken the sleeping riches of its 
eyesight, and call forth the glad music of its affections. 

Imagination enriches everything. A great library 240 
contains not only books, but 

"The assembled souls of all that men held wise." 

— Davenant. 

The moon is Homer's and Shakespeare's moon, as well 
as the one we look at. The sun comes out of his cham- 245 
ber in the east, with a sparkling eye, "rejoicing like a 
bridegroom." The commonest thing becomes like 
Aaron's rod, that budded. Pope called up the spirits 
of the Cabala to wait upon a lock of hair, and justly 
gave it the honours of a constellation; for he has hung 250 
it, sparkling for ever in the eyes of posterity. A com- 
mon meadow is a sorry thing to a ditcher or a coxcomb; 
but by the help of its dues from imagination and the love 
of nature, the grass brightens for us, the air soothes us, 
we feel as we did in the daisied hours of childhood. Its 255 
verdures, its sheep, its hedge-row elms, — all these, and 
all else which sight, and sound, and associations can 
give it, are made to furnish a treasure of pleasant thoughts. 
Even brick and mortar are vivified, as of old, at the harp 
of Orpheus. A metropolis becomes no longer a mere 260 
collection of houses or of trades. It puts on all the 
grandeur of its history, and its literature; its towers, and 
rivers; its art, and jewellery, and foreign wealth; its 
multitude of human beings all intent upon excitement, 
wise or yet to learn; the huge and sullen dignity of its 265 
canopy of smoke by day; the wide gleam upwards of its 
lighted lustre at night-time; and the noise of its many 
chariots, heard at the same hour, when the wind sets 
gently towards some quiet suburb. 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

(1785-1859) 

ON THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE IN MACBETH 

From my boyish days I had always felt a great per- 
plexity on one point in Macbeth. It was this: the 
knocking at the gate which succeeds to the murder of 
Duncan produced to my feelings an effect for which I 
never could account. The effect was that it reflected 5 
back upon the murder a peculiar awfulness and a depth 
of solemnity; yet, however I endeavored with my under- 
standing to comprehend this, for many years I could 
never see why it should produce such an effect. 

Here I pause for one moment to exhort the reader 10 
never to pay any attention to his understanding when it 
stands in opposition to any other faculty of his mind. 
The mere understanding, however useful, is the meanest 
faculty in the human mind, and the most to be distrusted; 
and yet the great majority of people trust nothing else; 15 
which may do for ordinary life, but not for philosophical 
purposes. Of this, out of ten thousand instances that 
I might produce, I will cite one. Ask any person what- 
soever, who is not previously prepared for the demand 
by a knowledge of perspective, to draw in the rudest way 20 
the commonest appearance which depends upon the law 
of that science; as, for instance, to represent the effect 
of two walls standing at right angles to each other, or 
the appearance of the houses on each side of a street, 

454 



DE QUINCEY 455 

as seen by a person looking down the street from one 25 
extremity. Now, in all cases, unless the person has hap- 
pened to observe in pictures how it is that artists pro- 
duce these effects, he will be utterly incapable to make 
the smallest approximation to it. Yet why? For he 
has actually seen the effect every day of his life. The ^o 
reason is — that he allows his understanding to overrule 
his eyes. His understanding, which includes no intui- 
tive knowledge of the laws of vision, can furnish him 
with no reason why a line, which is known and can be 
proved to be a horizontal line, should not appear a hori- 35 
zontal line. A line that made any angle with the per- 
pendicular less than a right angle would seem to him to 
indicate that his houses were all tumbling down together. 
Accordingly, he makes the line of his houses a horizon- 
tal line, and fails, of course, to produce the effect de- 40 
manded. Here, then, is one instance out of many, in 
which not only the understanding is allowed to overrule 
the eyes, but where the understanding is positively al- 
lowed to obliterate the eyes, as it were; for not only 
does the man believe the evidence of his understanding 45 
in opposition to that of his eyes, but (what is monstrous !) 
the idiot is not aware that his eyes ever gave such evi- 
dence. He does not know that he has seen (and, there- 
fore, quoad \\\?> consciousness has ;z^/seen) that which he 
has seen every day of his life. 50 

But to return from this digression. My understand- 
ing could furnish no reason why the knocking at the 
gate in Macbeth should produce any effect, direct or re- 
flected. In fact, my understanding said positively that 
it could not produce any effect. But I knew better. I 55 
felt that it did; and I waited and clung to the problem 
until further knowledge should enable me to solve it. 



456 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

At length, in 1812, Mr. Williams made his debut on the 
stage of Ratcliffe Highway, and executed those unparal- 
leled murders which have procured for him such a bril- 60 
liant and undying reputation. On which murders, by 
the way, I must observe that in one respect they have 
had an ill effect by making the connoisseur in murder 
very fastidious in his taste, and dissatisfied by anything 
that has been since done in that line. All other murders 65 
look pale by the deep crimson of his; and, as an ama- 
teur once said to me, in a querulous tone, "There has 
been absolutely nothing doing since his time, or noth- 
ing that's worth speaking of." But this is wrong; for it is 
unreasonable to expect all men to be great artists, and 70 
born with the genius of Mr. Williams. Now it will be 
remembered that in the first of these murders (that of 
the Marrs) the same incident (of knocking at the door 
soon after the work of extermination was complete) did 
actually occur, which the genius of Shakespeare has in- 75 
vented; and all good judges, and the most eminent 
dilettanti, acknowledged the felicity of Shakespeare's 
suggestion as soon as it was actually realized. Here, 
then, was a fresh proof that I was right in relying on my 
own feelings in opposition to my understanding; and I So 
again set myself to study the problem. At length I solved 
it to my own satisfaction; and the solution is this: Mur- 
der, in ordinary cases, where the sympathy is wholly 
directed to the case of the murdered person, is an inci- 
dent of coarse and vulgar horror; and for this reason, 85 
that it flings the interest exclusively upon the natural 
but ignoble instinct by which we cleave to life; an in- 
stinct, which, as being indispensable to the primal law 
of self-preservation, is the same in kind (though differ- 
ent in degree) amongst all living creatures. This in- 90 



DE QUINCE Y ^^y 

stinct, therefore, because it annihilates all distinctions, 
and degrades the greatest of men to the level of " the 
poor beetle that we tread on," exhibits human nature in 
Its most abject and humiliating attitude. Such an atti- 
tude would little suit the purposes of the poet. What, ^^^ 
then, must he do? He must throw the interest on the 
murderer. Our sympathy must be with him (of course 
I mean a sympathy of comprehension, a sympathy by 
which we enter into his feelings, and are made to under- 
stand them — not a sympathy of pity or approbation. loo 
In the murdered person all strife of thought, all flux and 
reflux of passion and of purpose, are crushed by an 
overwhelming panic; the fear of instant death strikes 
him " with its petrific mace." But in the murderer, such 
a murderer as a poet will condescend to, there must be 105 
raging some great storm of passion — jealousy, ambi- 
tion, vengeance, hatred — which will create a hell within 
him; and into this hell we are to look. 

In Macbeth, for the sake of gratifying his own enor- 
mous and teeming faculty of creation, Shakespeare has no 
introduced two murderers; and, as usual in his hands, 
they are remarkably discriminated; but, though in Mac- 
beth the strife of mind is greater than in his wife, the 
tiger spirit not so awake, and his feeling caught chiefly 
by contagion from her — yet, as both are finally involved 115 
in the guilt of murder, the murderous mind of necessity 
is finally to be presumed in both. This was to be ex- 
pressed; and on its own account, as well as to make it 
a more proportionable antagonist to the unoffending 
nature of their victim, "the gracious Duncan," and ade- 120 
quately to expound " the deep damnation of his taking 
off," this was to be expressed with peculiar energy. We 
were to be made to feel that the human nature — i.e.. 



458 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

the divine nature of love and mercy, spread through the 
hearts of all creatures, and seldom utterly withdrawn from 125 
man — was gone, vanished, extinct; and that the fiend- 
ish nature had taken its place. And, as this effect is 
marvellously accomplished in the dialogues and soliloquies 
themselves, so it is finally consummated by the expedi- 
ent under consideration; and it is to this that I now 130 
solicit the reader's attention. 

If the reader has ever witnessed a wife, a daughter, 
or sister in a fainting fit, he may chance to have observed 
that the most affecting moment in such a spectacle is 
that in which a sigh and a stirring announce the recom- 135 
mencement of suspended life. Or if the reader has ever 
been present in a vast metropolis on the day when some 
great national idol was carried in funeral pomp to his 
grave, and chancing to walk near the course through 
which it passed, has felt powerfully, in the desertion and 140 
silence of the streets, and in the stagnation of ordinary 
business, the deep interest which at that moment was 
possessing the heart of man — if all at once he should 
hear the deathlike stillness broken up by the sounds of 
wheels rattling away from the scene, and making known 145 
that the transitory vision was dissolved, he will be aware 
that at no moment was his sense of the complete suspen- 
sion and pause in ordinary human concerns so full and 
affecting as at that moment when the suspension ceases, 
and the goings-on of human life are suddenly resumed. 150 
All action in any direction is best expounded, measured, 
and made apprehensible by reaction. 

Now apply this to the case in Macbeth. Here, as I 
have said, the retiring of the human heart and the en- 
trance of the fiendish heart was to be expressed and 155 
made sensible. Another world has stepped in; and the 



DE QUINCEY 459 

murderers are taken out of the region of human things, 
human purposes, human desires. They are transfigured : 
Lady Macbeth is"unsexed;" Macbeth has forgot that 
he was born of woman; both are conformed to the image 160 
of devils; and the world of devils is suddenly revealed. 
But how shall this be conveyed and made palpable? In 
order that a new world may step in, this world must for 
a time disappear. The murderers, and the murder, must 
be insulated — cut off by an immeasurable gulf from the 165 
ordinary tide and succession of human affairs — locked 
up and sequestered in some deep recess; we must be 
made sensible that the world of ordinary life is suddenly 
arrested — laid asleep — tranced — racked into a dread 
armistice; time must be annihilated; relation to things 170 
without abolished; and all must pass self-withdrawn 
into a deep syncope and suspension of earthly passion. 
Hence it is that, when the deed is done, when the work 
of darkness is perfect, then the world of darkness passes 
away like a pageantry in the clouds : the knocking at the 175 
gate is heard; and it makes known audibly that the 
reaction has commenced : the human has made its reflux 
upon the fiendish; the pulses of life are beginning to 
beat again; and the re-establishment of the goings-on 
of the world in which we live first makes us profoundly 180 
sensible of the awful parenthesis that had suspended 
them. 

O, mighty poet ! Thy works are not as those of other 
men, simply and merely great works of art; but are also 
like the phenomena of nature, like the sun and the sea, 185 
the stars and the flowers — like frost and snow, rain and 
dew, hail- storm and thunder, which are to be studied 
with entire submission of our own faculties, and in the 
perfect faith that in them there can be no too much or 



460 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

too little, nothing useless or inert — but that, the farther 190 
we progress in our discoveries, the more we shall see 
proofs of design and self-supporting arrangement where 
the careless eye had seen nothing but accident ! 



THE THREE LADIES OF SORROW 

" I KNOW them thoroughly, and have walked in all their 
kingdoms. Three sisters they are, of one mysterious 
household; and their paths are wide apart; but of their 
dominion there is no end. Them I saw often convers- 
ing with Levana, and sometimes about myself. Do 5 
they talk, then? Oh, no ! Mighty phantoms like these 
disdain the infirmities of language. They may utter 
voices through the organs of man when they dwell in 
human hearts, but amongst themselves there is no voice 
nor sound; eternal silence reigns in their kingdoms. 10 
They spoke not, as they talked with Levana; they whis- 
pered not; they sang not; though oftentimes methought 
they might have sung : for I upon earth had heard their 
mysteries oftentimes deciphered by harp and timbrel, 
by dulcimer and organ. Like God, whose servants they 15 
are, they utter their pleasure, not by sounds that perish, 
or by words that go astray, but by signs in heaven, by 
changes on earth, by pulses in secret rivers, heraldries 
painted in darkness, and hieroglyphics written on the 
tablets of the brain. They wheeled in mazes; /spelled 20 
the steps. Jhey telegraphed from afar; /read the sig- 
nals. They conspired together; and on the mirrors of 
darkness my ^ye traced the plots. Theus wqxq the sym- 
bols; mine are the words. 



DE QUINCEY 46 1 

"What is it the sisters are? What is it that they do? 25 
Let me describe their form and their presence : if form 
it were that still fluctuated in its outline, or presence it 
were that for ever advanced to the front or for ever re- 
ceded amongst shades. 

"The eldest of the three is named J/^/<?;- Z^<;/zr>'w<3!- 30 
ruin, Our Lady of Tears. She it is that night and day 
raves and moans, calling for vanished faces. She stood 
in Rama, where a voice was heard of lamentation — 
Rachel weeping for her children, and refusing to be 
comforted. She it was that stood in Bethlehem on the 35 
night when Herod's sword swept its nurseries of inno- 
cents, and the little feet were stiffened for ever, which, 
heard at times as they tottered along floors overhead, 
woke pulses of love in household hearts that were not 
unmarked in heaven. Her eyes are sweet and subtle, 40 
wild and sleepy, by turns; oftentimes rising to the 
clouds, oftentimes challenging the heavens. She wears 
a diadem round her head. And I knew by childish 
memories that she could go abroad upon the winds, when 
she heard the sobbing of litanies or the thundering of 45 
organs, and when she beheld the mustering of summer 
clouds. This sister, the eldest, it is that carries keys 
more than papal at her girdle, which open every cottage 
and every palace. She, to my knowledge, sat all last 
summer by the bedside of the blind beggar, him that so 50 
often and so gladly I talked with, whose pious daughter, 
eight years old, with the sunny countenance, resisted the 
temptations of play and village mirth to travel all day 
long on dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this 
did God send her a great reward. In the spring time of 55 
the year, and whilst her own spring was budding, he re- 
called her to himself. But her blind father mourns for 



462 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ever OYtx her ; still he dreams at midnight that the little 
guiding hand is locked within his own; and still he 
awakens to a darkness that is now within a second and a 60 
deeper darkness. This Mater Lachryma7'uin also has 
been sitting all this winter of 1844-5 within the bed- 
chamber of the Czar, bringing before his eyes a daughter, 
not less pious, that vanished to God not less suddenly, 
and left behind her a darkness not less profound. By 65 
the power of the keys it is that Our Lady of Tears glides, 
a ghostly intruder, into the chambers of sleepless men, 
sleepless women, sleepless children, from Ganges to the 
Nile, from Nile to Mississippi. And her, because she 
is the first-born of her house and has the widest empire, 70 
let us honour with the title of Madonna. 

" The second sister is called Mater Suspiriorum, Our 
Lady of Sighs. She never scales the clouds, nor walks 
abroad upon the winds. She wears no diadem. And 
her eyes, if they were ever seen, would be neither sweet 75 
nor subtle; no man could read their story; they would 
be found filled with perishing dreams, and with wrecks 
of forgotten delirium. But she raises not her eyes; her 
head, on which sits a dilapidated turban, droops for 
ever, for ever fastens on the dust. She weeps not. She 80 
groans not. But she sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her 
sister. Madonna, is oftentimes stormy and frantic, rag- 
ing in the highest against heaven, and demanding back 
her darlings. But Our Lady of Sighs never clamours, 
never defies, dreams not of rebellious aspirations. She 85 
is humble to abjectness. Hers is the meekness that 
belongs to the hopeless. Murmur she may, but it is in 
her sleep. Whisper she may, but it is to herself in the 
twilight. Mutter she does at times, but it is in solitary 
places that are desolate as she is desolate, in ruined 90 



DE QUINCE Y 463 

cities, and when the sun has gone down to his rest. 
This sister is the visitor of the Pariah, of the Jew, of the 
bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean galleys; of 
the English criminal in Norfolk Island, blotted out from 
the books of remembrance in sweet far-off England; of 95 
the baffled penitent reverting his eyes for ever upon a 
solitary grave, which to him seems the altar overthrown 
of some past and bloody sacrifice, on which altar no 
oblations can now be availing, whether towards pardon 
that he might implore, or towards reparation that he 100 
might attempt. Every slave that at noonday looks up to 
the tropical sun with timid reproach, as he points with 
one hand to the earth, our general mother, but for hi7?i 
a step-mother — as he points with the other hand to the 
Bible, our general teacher, but against him sealed and 105 
sequestered; every woman sitting in darkness, without 
love to shelter her head, or hope to illumine her soli- 
tude, because the heaven-born instincts kindling in her 
nature germs of holy affections, which God implanted in 
her womanly bosom, having been stifled by social neces- no 
sities, now burn sullenly to waste, like sepulchral lamps 
amongst the ancients; every nun defrauded of her unre- 
turning May-time by wicked kinsmen, whom God will 
judge; all that are betrayed, and all that are rejected; 
outcasts by traditionary law, and children of hereditary 115 
disgrace — all these walk with Our Lady of Sighs. She 
also carries a key, but she needs it little. For her king- 
dom is chiefly amongst the tents of Shem, and the 
houseless vagrant of every clime. Yet in the very high- 
est walks of man she finds chapels of her own; and even 120 
in glorious England there are some that, to the world, 
carry their heads as proudly as the reindeer, who yet 
secretly have received her mark upon their foreheads. 



464 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

"But the third sister, who is also the youngest — ! 
Hush! whisper whilst we talk of her I Her kingdom is 125 
not large, or else no flesh should live; but within that 
kingdom all power is hers. Her head, turreted like that 
of Cybele, rises almost beyond the reach of sight. She 
droops not; and her eyes, rising so high, might be hidden 
by distance. But, being what they are, they cannot be 130 
hidden; through the treble veil of crape which she wears, 
the fierce light of a blazing misery, that rests not for 
matins or for vespers, for noon of day or noon of night, 
for ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from the 
very ground. She is the defier of God. She is also the 135 
mother of lunacies and the suggestress of suicides. Deep 
lie the roots of her power, but narrow is the nation that 
she rules. For she can approach only those in whom 
a profound nature has been upheaved by central convul- 
sions, in whom the heart trembles and the brain rocks 140 
under conspiracies of tempest from without and tempest 
from within. Madonna moves with uncertain steps, 
fast or slow, but still with tragic grace. Our Lady of 
Sighs creeps timidly and stealthily. But this youngest 
sister moves with incalculable motions, bounding, and 145 
with tiger's leaps. She carries no key; for, though com- 
ing rarely amongst men, she storms all doors at which 
she is permitted to enter at all. And /z(?r name is Mater 
Tenebrarum^ Our Ladj of Darkness." 



LORD BYRON 

(1788-1824) 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 5 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair' d the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress. 

Or softly lightens o'er her face; 10 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 15 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent! 

2 H 465 



466 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 

away, 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull 

decay: 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which 

fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself 

be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 5 

happiness. 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 

vain 
The shore to which their shiver' d sail shall never stretch 

again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself 

comes down; 
It cannot feel for other's woes, it dare not dream its 10 

own; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 

appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis- 
tract the breast. 

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 
hope of rest; 

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, 15 

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey 
beneath, 



BYRON 467 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have 

been, 
Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish 'd 

scene; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be. 
So, midst the wither' d waste of life, those tears would 20 

flow to me. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 
Where grew the arts of war and peace. 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 5 

But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse : 

Their place of birth alone is mute 10 

To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.' 

The mountains look on Marathon — 

And Marathon looks on the sea; 
And musing there an hour alone, 15 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 
For, standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave, 



468 PROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; 20 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 

And men in nations; — all were his! 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they? and where art thou, 25 

My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now ■ — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 30 

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter' d race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here? 35 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 

Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 40 

Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What, silent still? and silent all? 

Ah ! no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 45 

And answer, 'Let one living head. 
Eat one arise, — we come, we come ! ' 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 



BYRON 469 

In vain — in vain: strike other cliords; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 50 

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; 55 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 60 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 65 

Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 

That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 7° 

Another despot of the kind ! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 75 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 



470 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 

They have a king who buys and sells; 80 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells : 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 85 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 

I see their glorious black eyes shine; 
But gazing on each glowing maid. 

My own the burning tear-drop laves. 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 90 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 95 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! 



OCEAN 



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 



BYRON ^yi 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! lo 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, i=; 

When, in a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 20 

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send' St him, shivering in thy playful spray 
Atfd howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 25 

His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 30 

The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war — 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 35 

Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — ■ 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free. 
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 40 



472 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
Has dried up reahiis to deserts: — not so thou; — 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play, 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow : 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 45 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, — 
Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime. 50 
The image of eternity, the throne 
Of the invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy 55 

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 60 

For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH 

YEAR 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move : 
Yet though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 



BYRON 473 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 5 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle; lo 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share. 15 

But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 

Or binds his brow. 20 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield. 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 25 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 

Unworthy manhood ! - — unto thee 30 

Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 



474 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? 

The land of honourable death 
Is here: — up to the field, and give i:^ 

Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 

And take thy rest. 40 

MissoLONGHi, Jan. 22, 1824. 



SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art. 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 

To fetters, and the damp, vault's dayless gloom. 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

(1792-1822) 

THE CLOUD 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 5 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under; 1° 

And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 
And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 15 

While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 

Lightning my pilot sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits. ^^ 

Over earth^and ocean with gentle motion 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the Genii that move 
In the depths of the purple sea; 
475 



476 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Over the rills and the crags and the hills, 25 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream under mountain or stream 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 30 

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread. 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead: 
As on the jag of a mountain-crag 35 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardour of rest and of love, 40 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest. 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden 45 

Whom mortals call the Moon 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear, 50 

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof 

The Stars peep behind her and peer. 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 



SHELLEY 477 

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, — 55 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, 

And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; 60 

The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, 

When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; 65 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-coloured bow; - 70 

The Sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. 

While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 

And the nursling of the Sky : 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 75 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 80 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, — 

And out of the caverns of rain. 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise, and unbuild it again. 



4/8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit — • 

Bird thou never wert — 
That from heaven or near it 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest, 

Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 10 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are bright' ning, 

Thou dost float and run. 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 15 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight — 20 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear, 
Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. 25 



SHELLE Y 479 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 30 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow-clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody : — 35 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : 40 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower : 45 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view : 50 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflowered, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 55 
thieves. 



480 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers, — 

All that ever was, 
Joyous and clear and fresh, — thy music doth surpass. 60 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine : 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 65 

Chorus hymeneal 

Or triumphal chaunt. 
Matched with thine, would be all 
But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 70 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 

What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 80 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream. 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85 



SHELLEY 481 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90 

Yet, if we could scorn 

Hate and pride and fear, 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound. 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found. 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 100 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know; 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
The world should listen then as I am listening now. 105 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 
I 

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being. 
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

2 I 



482 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 

Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill to 

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill; 

Wild Spirit which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! 

II 

Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion, 15 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean. 

Angels of rain and lightning ! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height, 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 

Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : Oh hear ! 

Ill 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 

Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 



SHELLEY 483 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 

So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 

The sapless foliage of the ocean know 40 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. 

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 

Scarce seemed a vision, — I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 

Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life 1 I bleed ! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 55 

One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 



484 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : 

What if my leaves are falling like its own? 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60 

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe. 

Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 



A DEFENSE OF POETRY 

What Poetry Is 

The functions of the poetical faculty are twofold : 
by one it creates new materials of knowledge and power 
and pleasure; by the other it engenders in the mind a 
desire to reproduce and arrange them according to a 
certain rhythm and order which may be called the beau- 
tiful and the good. The cultivation of poetry is never 
more to be desired than at periods when, from an ex- 
cess of the selfish and calculating principle, the accu- 



SHELLEY 485 

mulation of the materials of external life exceed the 
quantity of the power of assimilating them to the inter- 10 
nal laws of human nature. The body has then become 
too unwieldy for that which animates it. 

Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the 
centre and circumference of knowledge; it is that which 
comprehends all science, and that to which all science 15 
must be referred. It is at the same time the root and 
blossom of all other systems of thought; it is that from 
which all spring, and that which adorns all; and that 
which, if blighted, denies the fruit and the seed, and 
withholds from the barren world the nourishment and 20 
the succession of the scions of the tree of life. It is 
the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all 
things; it is as the odor and the color of the rose to the 
texture of the elements which compose it, as the form 
and splendor of unfaded beauty to the secrets of anatomy 25 
and corruption. What were virtue, love, patriotism, 
friendship; what were the scenery of this beautiful uni- 
verse which we inhabit; what were our consolations on 
this side of the grave, and what were our aspirations 
beyond it, if poetry did not ascend to bring light and 30 
fire from those eternal regions where the owl-winged 
faculty of calculation dare not ever soar? Poetry is 
not, like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to 
the determination of the will. A man cannot say, " I 
will compose poetry. The greatest poet even cannot 35 
say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, 
which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, 
awakens to transitory brightness. This power arises 
from within, like the color of a flower, which fades and 
changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions 40 
of our natures are unprophetic either of its approach or 



486 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

its departure. Could this influence be durable in its 
original purity and force, it is impossible to predict the 
greatness of the results; but when composition begins, 
inspiration is already on the decline, and the most glo- 45 
rious poetry that has ever been communicated to the 
world is probably a feeble shadow of the original con- 
ceptions of the poet. I appeal to the greatest poets of 
the present day, whether it is not an error to assert that 
the finest passages of poetry are produced by labor and 50 
study. The toil and the delay recommended by critics 
can be justly interpreted to mean no more than a careful 
observation of the inspired moments, and an artificial 
connection of the spaces between their suggestions by 
the intermixture of conventional expressions — a neces- 55 
sity only imposed by the limitedness of the poetical fac- 
ulty itself; for Milton conceived the Paradise Lost as a 
whole before he executed it in portions. We have his 
own authority also for the Muse having "dictated" to 
him the "unpremeditated song." And let this be an 60 
answer to those who would allege the fifty-six various 
readings of the first line of the Oiiando Fiirioso. Com- 
positions so produced are to poetry what mosaic is to 
painting. This instinct and intuition of the poetical 
faculty is still more observable in the plastic and picto- 65 
rial arts. A great statue or picture grows under the power 
of the artist as a child in the mother's womb; and the 
very mind which directs the hands in formation is in- 
capable of accounting to itself for the origin, the gra- 
dations, or the media of the process. 70 

Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments 
of the happiest and best minds. We are aware of eva- 
nescent visitations of thought and feeling sometimes as- 
sociated with place or person, sometimes regarding our 



SHELLEY 487 

own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and de- 75 
parting unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond 
all expression; so that even in the desire and the regret 
they leave there cannot but be pleasure, participating as 
it does in the nature of its object. It is, as it were, the 
interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own; 80 
but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, 
which the coming calm erases, and whose traces remain 
only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These 
and corresponding conditions of being are experienced 
principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and 85 
the most enlarged imagination; and the state of mind 
produced by them is at war with every base desire. The 
enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship is 
essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst they 
last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. 90 
Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits 
of the most refined organization, but they can color all 
that they combine with the evanescent hues of this ethe- 
real world. A word, a trait, in the representation of a 
scene or a passion will touch the enchanted chord, and 95 
reanimate, in those who have ever experienced these 
emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the buried image of 
the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best 
and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing 
apparitions which haunt the interlunations of life, and, 100 
veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them 
forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred 
joy to those with whom their sisters abide — abide, 
because there is no portal of expression from the cav- 
erns of the spirit which they inhabit into the universe 105 
of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of 
the divinity in man. 



JOHN KEATS 

(1795-1821) 

A POET'S ECSTASY 

"Places of nestling green for poets made." 

— Story of Rimini. 

I STOOD tip-toe upon a little hill, 
The air was cooling, and so very still, 
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside. 
Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, 5 

Had not yet lost those starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, 
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept jo 
A little noiseless noise among the leaves. 
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves : 
For, not the faintest motion could be seen 
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye, 15 
To peer about upon variety; 
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 
And trace the dwindled edges of its brim ; 
To picture out the quaint, and curious bending 
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending; 20 

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. 
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. 

488 



KEA TS 489 

I gazed awhile and felt as light, and free 

As though the fanning wings of Mercury 

Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted, 25 

And many pleasures to my vision started ; 

So I straightway began to pluck a posey 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosey. 

A bush of Mayflowers with the bees around them; 

Ah, sure, no tasteful nook would be without them : 30 

And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 

And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them 

Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets, 

That they may- bind the mass in leafy nets. 



SLEEP AND POETRY 

Art and Imitation 

Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of Manhood, that the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds, 
Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 
Upon the clouds? Has she not shewn us all? 
From the clear space of ether, to the small 
Breath of new buds unfolding? From the meaning 
Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening 
Of April meadows? Here her altar shone. 
E'en in this isle; and who could paragon 
The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
Its mighty self of convoluting sound. 
Huge as a planet and like that roll round, 



490 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Eternally around a dizzy void? 
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 
With honors; nor had any other care 
Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair. 

Could all this be forgotten? Yes, a sc[h]ism 20 

Nurtured in foppery and barbarism, 

Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 

Men were thought wise who could not understand 

His glories: with a puling infant's force 

They sway'd about upon a rocking horse, 25 

And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal soul'd! 

The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd 

Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue 

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 

Of summer nights collected still to make 30 

The morning precious: beauty was awake! 

Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead 

To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 

And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 35 

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit. 

Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit 

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task: 

A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 

Of Poesy. 40 
^ . 

OxN FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 



KEATS 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne : 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken; 

Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 

Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



491 



ENDYMION 

Beauty 

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: 

Its loveliness increases; it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing 5 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways 10 

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 15 

With the green world they live in; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, 



492 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; 
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
All lovely tales that we have heard or read : 
An endless fountain of immortal drink, 
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 



Thou still unravished bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10 

II 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 15 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 

Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 

' For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20 



KEA TS 493 

III 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 25 

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, 
For ever panting and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above. 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 30 

IV 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest. 
Lead' St thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or sea-shore, 35 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 40 



O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 

With forest branches and the trodden weed; 
Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 

As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral ! 45 

When old age shall this generation waste. 



494 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st: 
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ' 50 



ADDRESSED TO HAYDON 

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning: 
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, 
Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, 
Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing: 
He of the rose, the violet, the spring, 
The social smile the chain for Freedom's sake 
And lo ! whose steadfastness would never take 
A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 
And other spirits there are, standing apart 
Upon the forehead of the age to come; 
These, these will give the world another heart, 
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
Of mighty workings? — 
Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb. 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead : 

That is the grasshopper's — he takes the lead 

In summer luxury, — he has never done 

With his delights, for, when tired out with fun. 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 



KEATS 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost. 

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 



495 



THE HUMAN SEASONS 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man : 

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 

He has his summer, when luxuriously 5 

Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought he loves 

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close; contented so to look lo 

On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 

Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 



TO LEIGH HUNT 



Glory and loveliness have passed away; 

For if we wander out in early morn. 

No wreathed incense do we see upborne 

Into the east, to meet the smiling day : 

No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay, 5 



496 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

In woven basket bringing ears of corn, 

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 

The shrine of Flora in her early May. 

But there are left delights as high as these 

And I shall ever bless my destiny, lo 

That in a time, when under pleasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free 

And leafy luxury, seeing I could please 

With these poor offerings, a man like thee? 



EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 

The Bard Speaks 

What though I leave this dull and earthly mould, 

Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 

With after times. — The patriot shall feel 

My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; 

Or in the senate thunder out my numbers, 5 

To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 

The sage will mingle with each moral theme 

My happy thoughts sententious : he will teem 

With lofty periods when my verses fire him. 

And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him. 10 

Lays have I left of such a dear delight 

That maids will sing them on their bridal-night. 

Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play. 

And formed a snowy circle on the grass, 15 

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass 

Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head 

Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red : 



KEA TS 497 

For there the lily and the musk-rose sighing, 

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: 20 

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 

A bunch of violets full blown, and double^ 

Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 

A little book, — and then a joy awakes 

About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, 25 

And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes: 

For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears; 

One that I fostered in my youthful years : 

The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep, 

Gush ever and anon with silent creep, 30 

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast. 

Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu ! 

Thy dales and hills are fading from my view : 

Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions, 35 

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air. 

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, 

And warm thy sons ! 

2K 



THOMAS CARLYLE 

(1795-1881) 

ESSAY ON BURNS 

A True Poet-Sottl 

Burns first came upon the world as a prodigy; and 
was, in that character, entertained by it, in the usual 
fashion, with loud, vague, tumultuous wonder, speedily 
subsiding into censure and neglect; till his early and 
most mournful death again awakened an enthusiasm for 5 
him, which, especially as there was now nothing to be 
done, and much to be spoken, has prolonged itself even 
to our own time. It is true, the 'nine days ' have long 
since elapsed; and the very continuance of this clamor 
proves that Burns was no vulgar wonder. Accordingly, 10 
even in sober judgments, where as years passed by, he 
has come to rest more and more exclusively on his own 
intrinsic merits, and may now be well-nigh shorn of that 
casual radiance, he appears not only as a true British 
poet, but as one of the most considerable British men 15 
of the eighteenth century. Let it not be objected that 
he did little. He did much, if we consider where and 
how. If the work performed was small, we must remem- 
ber that he had his very materials to discover; for the 
metal he worked in lay hid under the desert moor, where 20 
no eye but his had guessed, its existence; and we may 
almost say, that with his own hand he had to construct 

498 



CARL YLE 499 

the tools for fashioning it. For he found himself in 
deepest obscurity, without help, without instruction, 
without model; or with models only of the meanest sort. 25 
An educated man stands, as it were, in the midst of a 
boundless arsenal and magazine, filled with all the 
weapons and engines which man's skill has been able to 
devise from the earliest time; and he works, accord- 
ingly, with a strength borrowed from all past ages. How 30 
different is his state who stands on the outside of that 
storehouse, and feels that its gates must be stormed, or 
remain forever shut against him ! His means are the 
commonest and rudest; the mere work done is no meas- 
ure of his strength. A dwarf behind his steam-engine 35 
may remove mountains; but no dwarf will hew them 
down with a pickaxe; and he must be a Titan that 
hurls them abroad with his arms. 

It is in this last shape that Burns presents himself. 
Born in an age the most prosaic Britain had yet seen, 40 
and in a condition the most disadvantageous, where his 
mind, if it accomplished aught, must accomplish it 
under the pressure of continual bodily toil, nay, of 
penury and desponding apprehension of the worst evils, 
and with no furtherance but such knowledge as dwells 45 
in a poor man's hut, and the rhymes of a Ferguson or 
Ramsay for his standard of beauty, he sinks not under 
all these impediments: through the fogs and darkness 
of that obscure region, his lynx eye discerns the true 
relations of the world and human life; he grows into in- 50 
tellectual strength, and trains himself into intellectual 
expertness. Impelled by the expansive movement of 
his own irrepressible soul, he struggles forward into the 
general view; and with haughty modesty lays down 
before us, as the fruit of his labor, a gift which Time 55 



500 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

has now pronounced imperishable. Add to all this that 
his darksome drudging childhood and youth was by far 
the kindliest era of his whole life, and that he died in 
his thirty-seventh year, and then ask if it be strange 
that his poems are imperfect, and of small extent, or 60 
that his genius attained no mastery in its art. Alas! 
his sun shone as through a tropical tornado; and the pale 
shadow of death eclipsed it at noon ! Shrouded in such 
baleful vapors, the genius of Burns was never seen in 
clear azure splendor, enlightening the world : but some 65 
beams from it did, by fits, pierce through; and it tinted 
those clouds with rainbow and orient colors, into a glory 
and stern grandeur, which men silently gazed on with 
wonder and tears ! 

We are anxious not to exaggerate; for it is exposition 70 
rather than admiration that our readers require of us 
here; and yet to avoid some tendency to that side is no 
easy matter. We love Burns, and we pity him; and 
love and pity are prone to magnify. Criticism, it is 
sometimes thought, should be a cold business: we are 75 
not so sure of this; but, at all events, our concern with 
Burns is not exclusively that of critics. True and genial 
as his poetry must appear, it is not chiefly as a poet, but 
as a man, that he interests and affects us. He was often 
advised to write a tragedy : time and means were not 80 
lent him for this; but through life he enacted a tragedy, , 
and one of the deepest. We question whether the world 
has since witnessed so utterly sad a scene; whether Na- 
poleon himself, left to brawl with Sir Hudson Lowe, and 
perish on his rock, 'amid the melancholy main,' pre- 85 
sented to the reflecting mind such a 'spectacle of pity 
and fear ' as did this intrinsically nobler, gentler, and 
perhaps greater soul, wasting itself away in a hopeless 



CARLYLE 501 

Struggle with base entanglements, which coiled closer 
and closer round him, till only death opened him an 90 
outlet. Conquerors are a class of men with whom, for 
most part, the world could well dispense; nor can the 
hard intellect, the unsympathizing loftiness, and high 
but selfish enthusiasm of such persons inspire us in gen- 
eral with any affection; at best it may excite amazement; 95 
and their fall, like that of a pyramid, will be beheld with 
a certain sadness and awe. But a true poet, a man in 
whose heart resides some effluence of wisdom, some tone 
of the 'Eternal Melodies,' is the most precious gift that 
can be bestowed on a generation : we see in him a freer, 100 
purer development of whatever is noblest in ourselves; 
his life is a rich lesson to us; and we mourn his death 
as that of a benefactor who loved and taught us. 

Such a gift had Nature, in her bounty, bestowed on 
us in Robert Burns; but with queenlike indifference she 105 
cast it from her hand, like a thing of no moment; and 
it was defaced and torn asunder, as an idle bauble, 
before we recognized it. To the ill-starred Burns was 
given the power of making man's life more venerable, 
but that of wisely guiding his own life was not given, no 
Destiny, — for so in our ignorance we must speak, — 
his faults, the faults of others, proved too hard for him ; 
and that spirit, which might have soared could it but 
have walked, soon sank to the dust, its glorious faculties 
trodden under foot in the blossom; and died, we may 115 
almost say, without ever having lived. And so kind 
and warm a soul; so full of inborn riches, of love to all 
living and lifeless things ! How his heart flows out in 
sympathy over universal Nature, and in her bleakest 
provinces discerns a beauty and a meaning ! The 120 
'Daisy' falls not unheeded under his ploughshare; nor 



502 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

the ruined nest of that 'wee, cowering, timorous beastie, ' 
cast forth, after all its provident pains, to 'thole the 
sleety dribble and cranreuch cauld.' The 'hoar visage ' 
of Winter delights him; he dwells with a sad and oft- 125 
returning fondness in these scenes of solemn desolation; 
but the voice of the tempest becomes an anthem to his 
ears; he loves to walk in the sounding woods, for 'it 
raises his thoughts to Him that ivalketh on the wings 
of the wind.' A true poet-soul, for it needs but to be 130 
struck, and the sound it yields will be music ! But ob- 
serve him chiefly as he mingles with his brother men. 
What warm, all-comprehending fellow-feeling; what 
trustful, boundless love; what generous exaggeration of 
the object loved! His rustic friend, his nut-brown 135 
maiden, are no longer mean and homely, but a hero and 
a queen, whom he prizes as the paragons of earth. The 
rough scenes of Scottish life, not seen by him in any 
Arcadian illusion, but in the rude contradiction, in the 
smoke and soil of a too harsh reality, are still lovely to 140 
him. Poverty is indeed his companion, but Love also, 
and Courage; the simple feelings, the worth, the noble- 
ness, that dwell under the straw roof, are dear and ven- 
erable to his heart, and thus over the lowest provinces of 
man's existence he pours the glory of his own soul; and 145 
they rise, in shadow and sunshine, softened and bright- 
ened into a beauty which other eyes discern not in the 
highest. He has a just self-consciousness which too 
often degenerates into pride ; yet it is a noble pride, for 
defence, not for offence; no cold suspicious feeling, but 150 
a frank and social one. The peasant poet bears him- 
self, we might say, like a king in exile : he is cast among 
the low, and feels himself equal to the highest; yet he 
claims no rank, that none may be disputed to him. The 



CARLYLE 503 

forward he can repel, the supercilious he can subdue; 155 
pretensions of wealth or ancestry are of no avail with 
him; there is a fire in that dark eye, under which the 
'insolence of condescension' cannot thrive. In his 
abasement, in his extreme need, he forgets not for a 
moment the majesty of poetry and manhood. And yet, 160 
far as he feels himself above common men, he wan- 
ders not apart from them, but mixes warmly in their in- 
terests; nay, throws himself into their arms, and, as it 
were, entreats them to love him. It is moving to see 
how, in his darkest despondency, this proud being still 165 
seeks relief from friendship; unbosoms himself, often to 
the unworthy; and, amid tears, strains to his glowing 
heart a heart that knows only the name of friendship. 
And yet he was 'quick to learn; ' a man of keen vision, 
before whom common disguises afforded no conceal- 170 
ment. His understanding saw through the hollowness 
even of accomplished deceivers; but there was a gener- 
ous credulity in his heart. And so did our peasant show 
himself among us; 'a soul like an ^olian harp, in 
whose strings the vulgar wind, as it passed through them, 175 
changed itself into articulate melody. ' And this was he 
for whom the world found no fitter business than quar- 
relling with smugglers and vintners, computing excise- 
dues upon tallow, and gauging ale-barrels ! In such 
toils was that mighty spirit sorrowfully wasted; and a 180 
hundred years may pass on, before another such is given 
us to waste. 



504 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

SARTOR RESARTUS 

The Eve7'lasting Yea 

'Temptations in the Wilderness ! ' exclaims Teufels- 
drockh : 'Have we not all to be tried with such? Not so 
easily can the old Adam, lodged in us by birth, be dis- 
possessed. Our Life is compassed round with Neces- 
sity; yet is the meaning of Life itself no other than 5 
Freedom, than Voluntary Force : thus have we a war- 
fare; in the beginning, especially, a hard-fought battle. 
For the God-given mandate, Work thou in WeUdoing^ 
lies mysteriously written, in Promethean Prophetic 
Characters, in our hearts; and leaves us no rest, night 10 
or day, till it be deciphered and obeyed; till it burn 
forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted Gospel of Free- 
dom. And as the clay-given mandate. Eat thou and be 
filled, at the same time persuasively proclaims itself 
through every nerve, — must not there be a confusion, 15 
a contest, before the better Influence can become the 
upper ? 

'To me nothing seems more natural than that the Son 
of Man, when such God-given mandate first propheti- 
cally stirs within him, and the Clay must now be van- 20 
quished or vanquish, — should be carried of the spirit 
into grim Solitudes, and there fronting the Tempter d5 
grimmest battle with him; defiantly setting him at 
naught, till he yield and fly. Name it as we choose : 
with or without visible Devil, whether in the natural 25 
Desert of rocks and sands, or in the populous moral 
Desert of selfishness and baseness, — to such Tempta- 
tion are we all called. Unhappy if we are not ! Un- 
happy if we are but Half-men, in whom that divine 



CARLYLE 505 

'handwriting has never blazed forth, all-subduing, in 30 
'true sun-splendour; but quivers dubiously amid meaner 
Mights: or smoulders, in dull pain, in darkness, under 
'earthly vapours ! — Our Wilderness is the wide World 
'in an Atheistic Century; our Forty Days are long years 
'of suffering and fasting: nevertheless, to these also 35 
'comes an end. Yes, to me also was given, if not Vic- 
'tory, yet the consciousness of Battle, and the resolve to 
'persevere therein while life or faculty is left. To me 
'also, entangled in the enchanted forests, demon-peo- ~ 
'pled, doleful of sight and of sound, it was given, after 40 
'weariest wanderings, to work out my way into the 
'higher sunlit slopes — of that Mountain which has no 
'summit, or whose summit is in Heaven only! ' . . . 

'The hot Harmattan wind had raged itself out; its 
'howl went silent within me; and the long-deafened soul 45 
'could now hear. I paused in my wild wanderings; and 
'sat me down to wait, and consider; for it was as if the 
'hour of change drew nigh. I seemed to surrender, to 
'renounce utterly, and say : Fly, then, false shadows of 
'Hope; I will chase you no more, I will believe you no 50 
'more. And ye too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care 
'not for you; ye too are all shadows and a lie. Let me 
'rest here: for I am way-weary and life-weary; I will 
'rest here, were it but to die : to die or to live is alike 
'tome; alike insignificant. ' — And again: 'Here, then, 55 
'as I lay in that Centre of Indifference; cast, doubt- 
'less by benignant upper Influence, into a healing sleep, 
'the heavy dreams rolled gradually away, and I awoke to 
'a new Heaven and a new earth. The first preliminary 
'moral Act, Annihilation of Self {Selbst-todtung), had 60 
'been happily accomplished; and my mind's eyes were 
'now unsealed, and its hands ungyved.' . . . 



506 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

'Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey Tent 
'musing and meditating; on the high table-land, in front 
'of the Mountains; over me, as roof, the azure Dome, 65 
'and around me, for walls, four azure flowing curtains, 
' — namely, of the Four azure Winds, on whose bottom- 
' fringes also I have seen gilding. And then to fancy 
'the fair Castles that stood sheltered in these Mountain 
'hollows; with their green flower-lawns, and white dames 70 
'and damosels, lovely enough : or better still, the straw- 
'roofed Cottages, wherein stood many a Mother baking 
'bread, with her children round her: — all hidden and 
'protectingly folded-up in the valley-folds; yet there 
'and alive, as sure as if I beheld them. Or to see, as 75 
'well as fancy, the nine Towns and Villages, that lay 
'round my mountain-seat, which, in still weather, were 
'wont to speak to me (by their steeple-bells) with metal 
'tongue; and, in almost all weather, proclaimed their 
'vitality by repeated Smoke-clouds; whereon, as on a 80 
'culinary horologe, I might read the hour of the day. 
'For it was the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives 
'at morning, midday, eventide, were boiling their hus- 
' bands' kettles; and ever a blue pillar rose up into the 
'air, successively or simultaneously, from each of the 85 
'nine, saying, as plainly as smoke could say: Such and 
'such a meal is getting ready here. Not uninteresting! 
'For you have the whole Borough, with all its love- 
' makings and scandal-mongeries, contentions and con- 
'tentments, as in miniature, and could cover it all 90 
'with your hat. — If in my wide Wayfarings, I had 
'learned to look into the business of the World in its 
'details, here perhaps was the place for combining 
'it into general propositions, and deducing inferences 
'therefrom. 95 



CARL YLE 



50; 



'Often also could I see the black Tempest marching 
in anger through the Distance : round some Schreck- 
horn, as yet grim-blue, would the eddying vapour 
gather, and there tumultuously eddy, and flow down 
like a mad witch's hair; till, after a space, it vanished 100 
and, in the clear sunbeam, your Schreckhorn stood 
smiling grim-white, for the vapou'- had held snow. 
How thou fermentest and elaboratest, in thy great fer- 
menting-vat and laboratory of an Atmosphere, of a 
World, O Nature ! — Or what is Nature? Ha! why do 105 
I not name thee God? Art not thou the "Living Gar- 
ment of God"? O Heavens, is it, in very deed. He, 
then, that ever speaks through thee; that lives and loves 
in thee, that lives and loves in me? 

'Fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splendours, of no 
that Truth, and Beginning of Truths, fell mysteriously 
over my soul. Sweeter than Dayspring to the Ship- 
wrecked in Nova Zembla; ah, like the mother's voice 
to her little child that strays bewildered, weeping, in 
unknown tumults; like soft streamings of celestial music 115 
to my too-exasperated heart, came that Evangel. The 
Universe is not dead and demoniacal, a charnel-house 
with spectres; but godlike, and my Father's! 

'With other eyes, too, could I now look upon my fel- 
low man: with an infinite Love, an infinite Pity. Poor, 120 
wandering, wayward man ! Art thou not tried, and 
beaten with stripes, even as I am? Ever, whether 
thou bear the royal Qjantle or the beggar's gabardine, 
art thou not so weary, so heavy-laden; and thy Bed of 
Rest is but a Grave. O my Brother, my Brother, why 125 
cannot I shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away all 
tears from thy eyes! — Truly, the din of many-voiced 
Life, which, in this solitude, with the mind's organ, I 



508 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

'could hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but a 
■^melting one; like inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a 130 
'dumb creature, which in the ear of Heaven are prayers. 
'The poor Earth, with her poor joys, was now my needy 
'Mother, not my cruel Stepdame; Man, with his so mad 
'Wants and so mean Endeavours, had become the dearer 
'to me; and even for his sufferings and his sins, I now 135 
'first named him Brother. Thus was I standing in the 
'porch of that ^^ Sanctuary of Sorrozv ;''' by strange, 
'steep ways had I too been guided thither; and ere long 
'its sacred gates would open, and the ^''Divine DeptJi of 
''Sorrow'' lie disclosed to me.' 140 



DANTE 

Giotto's Portrait 

Many volumes have been written by way of commen- 
tary on Dante and his Book: yet, on the whole, with no 
great result. His Biography is, as it were, irrecoverably 
lost for us. An unimportant, wandering, sorrowstricken 
man, not much note was taken of him while he lived; ; 
and the most of that has vanished, in the long space that 
now intervenes. It is five centuries since he ceased writ- 
ing and living here. After all commentaries, the Book 
itself is mainly what we know of him. The Book; — 
and one might add that Portrait commonly attributed to k 
Giotto, which, looking on it, you cannot help inclining 
to think genuine, whoever did it. To me it is a most 
touching face; perhaps of all faces that I know, the 
most so. Lonely there, painted as on vacancy, with the 
simple laurel wound round it; the deathless sorrow and i; 



CARLYLE 509 

pain, the known victory which is also deathless; — sig- 
nificant of the whole history of Dante ! I think it is the 
mournfulest face that ever was painted from reality; an 
altogether tragic, heart-affecting face. There is in it, as 
foundation of it, the softness, tenderness, gentle affec- 20 
tion as of a child; but all this is as if congealed into 
sharp contradiction, into abnegation, isolation, proud 
hopeless pain. A soft ethereal soul looking-out so 
stern, implacable, grim-trenchant, as from imprison- 
ment of thick-ribbed ice! Withal it is a silent pain 25 
too, a silent scornful one : the lip is curled in a kind 
of godlike disdain of the thing that is eating-out his 
heart, — as if it were withal a mean insignificant thing, 
as if he whom it had power to torture and strangle 
were greater than it. The face of one wholly in protest, 30 
and life-long unsurrendering battle, against the world. 
Affection all converted into indignation: an implacable 
indignation; slow, equable, silent, like that of a god! 
The eye too, it looks-out as in a kind of sui-prise, a 
kind of inquiry. Why the world was of such a sort? 35 
This is Dante : so he looks, this ' voice of ten silent 
centuries,' and sings us ' his mystic unfathomable song.' 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 

(1800-1859) 

BYRON 
His Early Fame 

There can be no doubt that this remarkable man 
owed the vast influence which he exercised over his 
contemporaries at least as much to his gloomy egotism 
as to the real power of his poetry. We never could 
very clearly understand how it is that egotism, so unpop- 5 
ular in conversation, should be so popular in writing; 
or how it is that men who affect in their compositions 
qualities and feelings they have not, impose so much 
more easily on their contemporaries than on posterity. 
The interest which the loves of Petrarch excited in his 10 
own time, and the pitying fondness with which half 
Europe looked upon Rousseau are well known. To 
readers of our age, the love of Petrarch seems to have 
been love of that kind which breaks no hearts, and the 
sufferings of Rousseau to have deserved laughter rather 15 
than pity, to have been partly counterfeited, and partly 
the consequences of his own perverseness and vanity. 

What our grandchildren may think of the character of 
Lord Byron, as exhibited in his poetry, we will not pre- 
tend to guess. It is certain that the interest which he 20 
excited during his life is without a parallel in literary 
history. The feeling with which young readers of poetry 

510 



MACAULAY 51I 

regarded him can be conceived only by those who have 
experienced it. To people who are unacquainted with 
real calamity, " nothing is so dainty sweet as lovely mel- 25 
ancholy." This faint image of sorrow has in all ages 
been considered by young gentlemen as an agreeable 
excitement. Old gentlemen and middle-aged gentlemen 
have so many real causes of sadness that they are rarely 
inclined "to be as sad as night only for wantonness." 30 
Indeed they want the power almost as much as the incli- 
nation. We know very few persons engaged in active 
life who, even if they were to procure stools to be mel- 
ancholy upon, and were to sit down with all the pre- 
meditation of Master Stephen, would be able to enjoy 35 
much of what somebody calls "the ecstasy of woe." 

Among that large class of young persons whose read- 
ing is almost entirely confined to works of imagination, 
the popularity of Byron was unbounded. They bought 
pictures of him; they treasured up the smallest relics of 40 
him; they learned his poems by heart, and did their 
best to write like him, and to look like him. Many of 
them practised at the glass in the hope of catching the 
curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the brow, which 
appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded their 45 
neck-cloths in imitation of their great leader. For 
some years the Minerva press sent forth no novel with- 
out a mysterious, unhappy, Lara-like peer. The num- 
ber of hopeful undergraduates and medical students 
who became things of dark imaginings, on whom the 50 
freshness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose 
passions had consumed themselves to dust, and to whom 
the relief of tears was denied, passes all calculation. 
This was not the worst. There was created in the 
minds of many of these enthusiasts a pernicious and 55 



512 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

absurd association between intellectual power arid moral 
depravity. From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a 
system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and vo- 
luptuousness, a system in which the two great command- 
ments were, to hate your neighbour, and to love your 60 
neighbour's wife. 

This affectation has passed away; and a few more 
years will destroy whatever remains of that magical 
potency which once belonged to the name of Byron. 
To us he is still a man, young, noble, and unhappy. 65 
To our children he will be merely a writer; and their 
impartial judgment will appoint his place among writ- 
ers; without regard to his rank or to his private history. 
That his poetry will undergo a severe sifting, that much 
of what has been admired by his contemporaries will be 70 
rejected as worthless, we have little doubt. But we have 
as little doubt that, after the closest scrutiny, there will 
still remain much that can only perish with the English 
language. 



WARREN HASTINGS 

The Ti'ial 

The place was worthy of such a trial. It was the great 
hall of William Rufus, the hall which had resounded 
with acclamations at the inauguration of thirty kings, 
the hall which had witnessed the just sentence of Bacon, 
and the just absolution of Somers, the hall where the 
eloquence of Strafford had for a moment awed and 
melted a victorious party inflamed with just resentment, 
the hall where Charles had confronted the High Court 
of Justice with the placid courage which has half re- 



MACAULAY 513 

deemed his fame. Neither military nor civil pomp was to 
wanting. The avenues were lined with grenadiers. The 
streets were kept clear by cavalry. The peers, robed in 
gold and ermine, were marshalled by the heralds under 
Garter-King-at-arms. The judges in their vestments of 
state attended to give advice on points of law. Near a 15 
hundred and seventy lords, three-fourths of the Upper 
House as the Upper House then was, walked in solemn 
order from their usual place of assembling to the tri- 
bunal. The junior baron present led the way, George 
Eliott, Lord Heathfield, recently ennobled for his mem- 20 
orable defence of Gibraltar against the fleets and armies 
of France and Spain. The long procession was closed 
by the Duke of Norfolk, Earl-Marshal of the realm, by 
the great dignitaries, and by the brothers and sons of 
the King. Last of all came the Prince of Wales, con- 25 
spicuous by his fine person and noble bearing. The 
gray old walls were hung with scarlet. The long gal- 
leries were crowded by an audience such as has rarely 
excited the fears or the emulation of an orator. There 
were gathered together, from all parts of a great, free, 2,0 
enlightened, and prosperous empire, grace and female 
loveliness, wit and learning, the representatives of every 
science and of every art. There were seated round the 
Queen the fair-haired young daughters of the house of 
Brunswick. There the Ambassadors of great Kings and 35 
Commonwealths gazed with admiration on a spectacle 
which no other country in the world could present. 
There Siddons, in the prime of her majestic beauty, 
looked with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imi- 
tations of the stage. There the historian of the Roman 40 
Empire thought of the days when Cicero pleaded the 
cause of Sicily against Verres, and when, before a sen- 



5 14 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

ate which still retained some show of freedom, Tacitus 
thundered against the oppressor of Africa. There were 
seen, side by side, the greatest painter and the greatest 45 
scholar of the age. The spectacle had allured Reynolds 
from that easel which has preserved to us the thoughtful 
foreheads of so many writers and statesmen, and the 
sweet smiles of so many noble matrons. It had induced 
Parr to suspend his labours in that dark and profound 50 
mine from which he had extracted a vast treasure of 
erudition, a treasure too often buried in the earth, too 
often paraded with injudicious and inelegant ostenta- 
tion, but still precious, massive, and splendid. There 
appeared the voluptuous charms of her to whom the 55 
heir of the throne had in secret plighted his faith. 
There too was she, the beautiful mother of a beautiful 
race, the Saint Cecilia, whose delicate features, lighted 
up by love and music, art has rescued from the com- 
mon decay. There were the members of that brilliant 60 
society which quoted, criticised, and exchanged repar- 
tees under the rich peacock hangings of Mrs. Mon- 
tague. And there the ladies whose lips, more persuasive 
than those of Fox himself, had carried the Westminster 
election against palace and treasury, shone round Georgi- 65 
ana. Duchess of Devonshire. 

The Serjeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced 
to the bar, and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed 
not unworthy of that great presence. He had ruled an 
extensive and populous country, had made laws and trea- 70 
ties, had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled down 
princes. And in his high place he had so borne him- 
self, that all had feared him, that most had loved him, 
and that hatred itself could deny him no title to glory 
except virtue. He looked like a great man, and not 75 



MACAULAY 515 

like a bad man. A person small and emaciated, yet 
deriving dignity from a carriage which, while it indi- 
cated deference to the court, indicated also habitual 
self-possession and self-respect, a high and intellectual 
forehead, a brow pensive, but not gloomy, a mouth of 80 
inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but serene, on 
which was written, as legibly as under the picture in the 
council chamber at Calcutta, Mens cequa in arduis ; such 
was the aspect with which the great Proconsul presented 
himself to his judges. 85 

His counsel accompanied him, men all of whom were 
afterwards raised, by their talents and learning, to the 
highest posts in their profession, the bold and strong- 
minded Law, afterwards Chief Justice of the King's 
Bench; the more humane and eloquent Dallas, after- 90 
wards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas; and Plomer 
who, near twenty years later, successfully conducted in 
the same high court the defence of Lord Melville, and 
subsequently became Vice-Chancellor and Master of the 
Rolls. 95 

But neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so 
much notice as the accusers. In the midst of the blaze 
of red drapery, a space had been fitted up with green 
benches and tables for the Commons. The managers, 
with Burke at their head, appeared in full dress. The 100 
collectors of gossip did not fail to remark that even 
Fox, generally so regardless of his appearance, had paid 
to the illustrious tribunal the compliment of wearing a 
bag and sword. Pitt had refused to be one of the con- 
ductors of the impeachment; and his commanding, 105 
copious, and sonorous eloquence was wanting to that 
great muster of various talents. Age and blindness had 
unfitted Lord North for the duties of a public prose- 



■516 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

cutor; and his friends were left without the help of his 
excellent sense, his tact and his urbanity. But in spite no 
of the absence of these two distinguished members of 
the Lower House, the box in which the managers stood 
contained an array of speakers such as perhaps had not 
appeared together since the great age of Athenian elo- 
quence. There were Fox and Sheridan, the English 115 
Demosthenes and the English Hyperides. There was 
Burke, ignorant, indeed, or negligent, of the art of 
adapting his reasonings and his style to the capacity 
and taste of his hearers, but in amplitude of compre- 
hension and richness of imagination superior to every 120 
orator, ancient or modern. There, with eyes reveren- 
tially fixed on Burke, appeared the finest gentleman of 
the age, his form developed by every manly exercise, 
his face beaming with intelligence and spirit, the ingen- 
ious, the chivalrous, the high-souled Windham. Nor, 125 
though surrounded by such men, did the youngest man- 
ager pass unnoticed. At an age when most of those who 
distinguish themselves in life are still contending for 
prizes and fellowships at college, he had won for him- 
self a conspicuous place in parliament. No advantage 130 
of fortune or connexion was wanting that could set off 
to the height his splendid talents and his unblemished 
honour. At twenty-three he had been thought worthy to 
be ranked with the veteran statesmen who appeared as 
the delegates of the British Commons, at the bar of the 135 
British Nobility. All who stood at that bar, save him 
alone, are gone, culprit, advocates, accusers. To the 
generation which is now in the vigour of life, he is now 
the sole representative of a great age which has passed 
away. But those, who within the last ten years, have 140 
listened with delight, till the mornjng sun shone on the 



MACAU LAY 



517 



tapestries of the House of Lords, to the lofty and ani- 
mated eloquence of Charles Earl Grey, are able to form 
some estimate of the powers of a race of men among 
whom he was not the foremost. 145 

The charges and the answers of Hastings were first 
read. The ceremony occupied two whole days, and was 
rendered less tedious than it would otherwise have been 
by the silver voice and just emphasis of Cowper, the 
clerk of the court, a near relation of the amiable poet. 150 
On the third day Burke rose. Four sittings were occu- 
pied by his opening speech, which was intended to be 
a general introduction to all the charges. With an exu- 
berance of thought and a splendour of diction which 
more than satisfied the highly raised expectation of the 155 
audience, he described the character and institutions of 
the natives of India, recounted the circumstances in 
which the Asiatic empire of Britain had originated, and 
set forth the constitution of the Company and of the 
English Presidencies. Having thus attempted to com- 160 
municate to his hearers an idea of Eastern society, as 
vivid as that which existed in his own mind, he pro- 
ceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings as sys- 
tematically conducted in defiance of morality and public 
law. The energy and pathos of the great orator extorted 165 
expressions of unwonted admiration from the stern and 
hostile Chancellor, and, for a moment, seemed to pierce 
even the resolute heart of the defendant. The ladies in 
the galleries, unaccustomed to such displays of elo- 
quence, excited by the solemnity of the occasion, and 170 
perhaps not unwilling to display their taste and sensi- 
bility, were in a state of uncontrollable emotion. Hand- 
kerchiefs were pulled out; smelling bottles were handed 
round; hysterical sobs and screams were heard, and Mrs. 



/ 



5l8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At length the orator 175 
concluded. Raising his voice till the old arches of 
Irish oak resounded, "Therefore," said he, "hath it 
with all confidence been ordered, by the Commons of 
Great Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings of high 
crimes and misdemeanours. I impeach him in the name 180 
of the Commons' House of Parliament, whose trust he 
has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the Eng- 
lish nation, whose ancient honour he has sullied. I im- 
peach him in the name of the people of India, whose 
rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he 185 
has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of human 
nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of 
every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the 
common enemy and oppressor of all! " 



JOHN HENRY CARDINAL NEWMAN 

(1801 1890) 

IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY 
Knoivledge in Relation to Culture 

A GREAT memory, as I have already said, does not 
make a philosopher, any more than a dictionary can be 
called a grammar. There are men who embrace in their 
minds a vast multitude of ideas, but with little sensi- 
bility about their real relations towards each other. 3 
These may be antiquarians, annalists, naturalists; they 
may be learned in the law; they may be versed in sta- 
tistics; they are most useful in their own place; I 
should shrink from speaking disrespectfully of them; 
still, there is nothing in such attainments to guaran- 10 
tee the absence of narrowness of mind. If they are 
nothing more than well-read men, or men of informa- 
tion, they have not what specially deserves the name 
of culture of mind, or fulfils the type of Liberal Edu- 
cation. 15 

In like manner, we sometimes fall in with persons 
who have seen much of the world, and of the men who, 
in their day, have played a conspicuous part in it, but 
who generalize nothing, and have no observation, in the 
true sense of the word. They abound in information in 20 
detail, curious and entertaining, about men and things; 
and, having lived under the influence of no very clear 

519 



52C FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

or settled principles, religious or political, they speak 
of every one and every thing, only as so many phenom- 
ena, which are complete in themselves, and lead to 25 
nothing, not discussing them, or teaching any truth, or 
instructing the hearer, but simply talking. No one 
would say that these persons, well informed as they are, 
had attained to any great culture of intellect or to phi- 
losophy. 30 

The case is the same still more strikingly where the 
persons in question are beyond dispute men of inferior 
powers and deficient education. Perhaps they have 
been much in foreign countries, and they receive, in 
a passive, otiose, unfruitful way, the various facts which 35 
are forced upon them there. Seafaring men, for ex- 
ample, range from one end of the earth to the other; 
but the multiplicity of external objects, which they 
have encountered, forms no symmetrical and consistent 
picture upon their imagination; they see the tapestry 40 
of human life, as it were on the wrong side, and it 
tells no story. They sleep, and they rise up, and they 
find themselves, now in Europe, now in Asia; they see 
visions of great cities and wild regions; they are in the 
marts of commerce, or amid the islands of the South; 45 
they gaze on Pompey's Pillar, or on the Andes; and 
nothing which meets them carries them forward or back- 
ward, to any idea beyond itself. Nothing has a drift 
or relation; nothing has a history or a promise. Every 
thing stands by itself, and comes and goes in its turn, 50 
like the shifting scenes of a show, which leave the spec- 
tator where he was. Perhaps you are near such a man 
on a particular occasion, and expect him to be shocked 
or perplexed at something which occurs; but one thing 
is much the same to him as another, or, if he is per- 55 



NE WMAN 



521 



plexed, it is as not knowing what to say, whether it is 
right to admire, or to ridicule, or to disapprove, while 
conscious that some expression of opinion is expected 
from him; for in fact he has no standard of judgment 
at all, and no landmarks to guide him to a conclusion. 60 
Such is mere acquisition, and, I repeat, no one would 
dream of calling it philosophy. 

Instances, such as these, confirm, by the contrast, the 
conclusion I have already drawn from those which pre- 
ceded them. That only is true enlargement of mind 65 
which is the power of viewing many things at once as 
one whole, of referring them severally to their true 
place in the universal system, of understanding their 
respective values, and determining their mutual depend- 
ence. Thus is that form of Universal Knowledge, of 73 
which I have on a former occasion spoken, set up in 
the individual intellect, and constitutes its perfection. 
Possessed of this real illumination, the mind never views 
any part of the extended subject-matter of Knowledge 
without recollecting that it is but a part, or without the 75 
associations which spring from this recollection. It 
makes everything in some sort lead to everything else; 
it would communicate the image of the whole to every 
separate portion, till that whole becomes in imagina- 
tion like a spirit, everywhere pervading and penetrating 80 
its component parts, and giving them one definite mean- 
ing. Just as our bodily organs, when mentioned, recall 
their function in the body, as the word "creation" sug- 
gests the Creator, and "subjects " a sovereign, so, in the 
mind of the Philosopher, as we are abstractly conceiv- 85 
ing of him, the elements of the physical and moral 
world, sciences, arts, pursuits, ranks, offices, events, 
opinions, individualities, are all viewed as one, with 



522 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

correlative functions, and as gradually by successive 
combinations converging, one and all, to the true 90 
centre. 

To have even a portion of this illuminative reason 
and true philosophy is the highest state to which nat- 
ure can aspire, in the way of intellect; it puts the 
mind above the influences of chance and necessity, above 95 
anxiety, suspense, unsettlement, and superstition, which 
is the lot of the many. Men, whose minds are possessed 
with some one object, take exaggerated views of its im- 
portance, are feverish in the pursuit of it, make it the 
measure of things which are utterly foreign to it, and 100 
are startled and despond if it happens to fail them. 
They are ever in alarm or in transport. Those on the 
other hand who have no object or principle whatever to 
hold by, lose their way every step they take. They are 
thrown out, and do not know what to think or say, at 105 
every fresh juncture; they have no view of persons, or 
occurrences, or facts, which come suddenly upon them, 
and they hang upon the opinion of others for want of 
internal resources. But the intellect, which has been 
disciplined to the perfection of its powers, which know^s, no 
and thinks while it knows, which has learned to leaven 
the dense mass of facts and events with the elastic force 
of reason, such an intellect cannot be partial, cannot be 
exclusive, cannot be impetuous, cannot be at a loss, 
cannot but be patient, collected, and majestically calm, 115 
because it discerns the end in every beginning, the ori- 
gin in every end, the law in every interruption, the limit 
in each delay; because it ever knows where it stands, 
and how its path lies from one point to another. It is 
the rcTpdyoj.os of the Peripatetic, and has the "nil ad- 120 
mirari " of the Stoic, — 



NEWMAN 523 

Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 
Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum 
Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari. 

There are men who, when in difficulties, originate at 125 
the moment vast ideas or dazzling projects; who, mider 
the influence of excitement, are able to cast a light, 
almost as if from inspiration, on a subject or course 
of action which comes before them; who have a sudden 
presence of mind equal to any emergency, rising with 130 
the occasion, and an undaunted magnanimous bearing, 
and an energy and keenness which is but made intense 
by opposition. This is genius, this is heroism; it is 
the exhibition of a natural gift, which no culture can 
teach, at which no Institution can aim : here, on the 135 
contrary, we are concerned, not with mere nature, but 
with training and teaching. That perfection of the In- 
tellect, which is the result of Education, and its beau 
ideal, to be imparted to individuals in their respective 
measures, is the clear, calm, accurate vision and com- 140 
prehension of all things, as far as the finite mind can 
embrace them, each in its place, and with its own char- 
acteristics upon it. It is almost prophetic from its 
knowledge of history; it is almost heart-searching from 
its knowledge of human nature; it has almost super- 145 
natural charity from its freedom from littleness and 
prejudice; it has almost the repose of faith, because 
nothing can startle it; it has almost the beauty and 
harmony of heavenly contemplation, so intimate is it 
with the eternal order of things and the music of the 150 
spheres, » 



524 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

CALLISTA: A TALE OF THE THIRD CENTURY 
Callista's Vision 

O WISDOM of the world ! and strength of the world ! 
what are you when matched beside the foolishness and 
the weakness of the Christian? You are great in re- 
sources, manifold in methods, hopeful in prospects; 
but one thing you have not, — and that is peace. You 5 
are always tumultuous, restless, apprehensive. You have 
nothing you can rely upon. You have no rock under 
your feet. But the humblest, feeblest Christian has that 
which is impossible to you. Callista had once felt the 
misery of maladies akin to yours. She had passed 10 
through doubt, anxiety, perplexity, despondency, pas- 
sion; but now she was in peace. Now she feared the 
torture or the flame as little as the breeze which arose 
at nightfall, or the busy chatter of the grasshoppers at 
the noonday. Nay, rather, she did not think of torture 15 
and death at all, but was possessed by a peace which 
bore her up, as if bodily, on its mighty wings. For 
hours she remained on her knees, after C?ecilius left 
her : then she lay down on her rushes and slept her last 
mortal sleep. 20 

She slept sound; she dreamed. She thought she was 
no longer in Africa, but in her own Greece, more sunny 
and bright than before; but the inhabitants were gone. 
Its majestic mountains, its rich plains, its expanse of 
waters, all silent: no one to converse with, no one to 25 
sympathize with. And, as she wandered on and won- 
dered, suddenly its face changed, and its colours were 
illuminated tenfold by a heavenly glory, and each hue 
upon the scene was of a beauty she had never known, 



NEWMAN 525 

and seemed strangely to affect all her senses at once, 30 
being fragrance and music, as well as light. And there 
came out of the grottos, and glens, and woods, and out 
of the seas, myriads of bright images, whose forms she 
could not discern; and these came all around her, and 
became a sort of scene or landscape, which she could 35 
not have described in words, as if it were a world of 
spirits, not of matter. And as she gazed, she thought 
she saw before her a well-known face, only glorified. 
She, who had been a slave, now was arrayed more bril- 
liantly than an oriental queen; and she looked at Cal- 40 
lista with a smile so sweet, that Callista felt she could 
but dance to it. 

And as she looked more earnestly, doubting whether 
she should begin or not, the face changed, and now was 
more marvellous still. It had an innocence in its look, 45 
and also a tenderness, which bespoke both Maid and 
Mother, and so transported Callista, that she must needs 
advance towards her, out of love and reverence. And 
the Lady seemed to make signs of encouragement: so 
she began a solemn measure, unlike all dances of earth, 50 
with hands and feet, serenely moving on towards what 
she heard some of them call a great action and a glori- 
ous consummation, though she did not know what they 
meant. At length she was fain to sing as well as dance ; 
and her words were, " In the Name of the Father, and 55 
of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost"; on which another 
said, "A good beginning of the sacrifice." And when 
she had come close to this gracious figure, there was a 
fresh change. The face, the features were the same; but 
the light of Divinity now seemed to beam through them, 60 
and the hair parted, and hung down long on each side of 
the forehead; and there was a crown of another fashion 



526 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

from the Lady's round about it, made of what looked 
like thorns. And the palms of the hands were spread 
out as if towards her, and there were marks of wounds 65 
in them. And the vestment had fallen, and there was a 
deep opening in the side. And as she stood entranced 
before Him, and motionless, she felt a consciousness 
that her own palms were pierced like His, and her feet 
also. And she looked round, and saw the likeness of 70 
His face and of His wounds upon all that company. 
And now they were suddenly moving on, and bearing 
something, or some one, heaven-wards; and they too 
began to sing, and their words seemed to be, "Rejoice 
with Me, for I have found My sheep," ever repeated. 75 
They went up through an avenue or long grotto, with 
torches of diamonds, and amethysts, and sapphires, 
which lit up its spars and made them sparkle. And 
she tried to look, but could not discover what they were 
carrying, till she heard a very piercing cry, which awoke 80 

her. 

^_ — 

UNIVERSITY SERMONS 

Music a Symbol of the Unseen 

Let us take another instance, of an outward and 
earthly form, or economy, under which great wonders 
unknown seem to be typified; I mean musical sounds, 
as they are exhibited most perfectly in instrumental har- 
mony. There are seven notes in the scale; make them 5 
fourteen; yet what a slender outfit for so vast an enter- 
prise! What science brings so much out of so little? 
Out of what poor elements does some great master in it 
create his new world ! Shall we say that all this exuber- 



NEWMAN 527 

ant inventiveness is a mere ingenuity or trick of art, 10 
like some game or fashion of the day, without reality, 
without meaning? We may do so; and then, perhaps, 
we shall also account the science of theology to be a 
matter of words; yet, as there is a divinity in the theol- 
ogy of the Church, which those who feel cannot com- 15 
municate, so is there also in the wonderful creation of 
sublimity and beauty of which I am speaking. To many 
men the very names which the science employs are 
utterly incomprehensible. To speak of an idea or a 
subject seems to be fanciful or trifling, to speak of the 20 
views which it opens upon us to be childish extrava- 
gance; yet is it possible that that inexhaustible evolu- 
tion and disposition of notes, so rich yet so simple, so 
intricate yet so regulated, so various yet so majestic, 
should be a mere sound, which is gone and perishes? 25 
Can it be that those mysterious stirrings of heart, and 
keen emotions, and strange yearnings after we know not 
what, and awful impressions from we know not whence, 
should be wrought in us by what is unsubstantial, and 
comes and goes, and begins and ends in itself? It is 30 
not so; it cannot be. No; they have escaped from 
some higher sphere; they are the outpourings of eternal 
harmony in the medium of created sound; they are 
echoes from our home; they are the voice of angels, or 
the Magnificat of saints, or the living laws of divine 35 
governance, or the divine attributes; something are they 
besides themselves, which we cannot compass, which we 
cannot utter, — though mortal man, and he perhaps not 
otherwise distinguished above his fellows, has the gift 
of eliciting them. 40 



ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

(1809-1892) 

THE DYING SWAN 

The plain was grassy, wild, and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air. 
Which had built up everywhere 

An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 5 

Adovvn it floated a dying swan, 

And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 10 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
And white against the cold-white sky. 
Shone out their crowning snows, 

One willow over the river wept. 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 15 

Above in the wind was the swallow. 

Chasing itself at its own wild will. 

And far thro' the marish green and still 

The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 20 

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
528 



TENNYSON 529 

Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 

The warble was low, and full and clear; 

And floating about the under-sky, 25 

Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 

Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice, 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; 30 

As when a mighty people rejoice 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 35 

And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. 

And the willow-branches hoar and dank. 

And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. 

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, 

And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 40 

The desolate creeks and pools among. 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 



THE POET 

The poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above; 
Dower' d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill. 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will, 
An open scroll, 

2M 



530 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame : lo 

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue. 

And of so fierce a flight, 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 15 

Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, 

The fruitful wit 20 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew 

Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower all gold. 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 25 

The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 

Tho' one did fling the fire. 30 

Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 

Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, 35 

Rare sunrise flow'd. 



531 



THE POET'S MIND 

Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 



40 



TENNYSON 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her beautiful bold brow, 
When rites and forms before his burning eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 45 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. 
And when she spake, 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 

And as the lightning to the thunder 50 

Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
Making earth wonder. 

So was their meaning to her words. No sword 

Of wrath her right arm whirl' d. 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 55 

She shook the world. 



532 FROM CHAUCER TO ARiVOLD 

Dark-brovv'd sophist, come not anear; 

All the place is holy ground; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer lo 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. 15 

In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 

From the groves within 20 

The wild-bird's din. 
In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, 
It would fall to the ground if you came in. 
In the middle leaps a fountain 

Like sheet-lightning. 25 

Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Which stands in the distance yonder : 30 

It springs on a level of bowery lawn. 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, 
And it sings a song of undying love; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; 35 
So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came in. 



TENNYSON 533 

THE POET'S SONG 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 

And waves of shadow went over the wheats 
And he sat him down in a lonely place, 5 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray, 10 

The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 

And stared, with his foot on the prey. 
And the nightingale thought, " I have sung many songs, 

But never a one so gay. 
For he sings of what the world will be 15 

When the years have died away." 



SIR GALAHAD 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure. 
My strength is as the strength of ten. 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter' d spear-shafts crack and fly. 

The horse and rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 



534 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 15 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine. 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 20 

More bounteous aspects on me beam. 

Me mightier transports move and thrill. 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 25 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride; 

I hear a voice, but none are there ; 30 

The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 35 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board; no helmsman steers : 

I float till all is dark. 40 

A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 



TENNYSON 535 

Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 45 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides. 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 5° 

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 55 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 65 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odors haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand. 

This mortal armor that I wear, 7° 

This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touch' d, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 75 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 



60 



536 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
"O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 80 

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and palCj 
AU-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



ULYSSES 



It little profits that, an idle king. 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race. 

That hoard and sleep and feed and know not me. 5 

I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 

Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed 

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone : on shore, and when 

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 10 

Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name; 

For, always roaming with a hungry heart. 

Much have I seen and known — cities of men. 

And manners, climates, councils, governments 

(Myself not least, but honored of them all) — 15 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough 

Gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades 20 

Forever and forever when I move. 



TENNYSON 537 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use ! 

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 25 

Little remains; but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence — something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire ^o 

To follow knowledge, like a sinking star. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 35 

This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 40 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, 45 

Souls that have toiled and wrought and thought with me. 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads, you and I are old. 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. 50 

Death closes all; but something ere the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; 



538 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep 55 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and, sitting well in order, smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 60 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Though much is taken, much abides; and though 65 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are : 

One equal temper of heroic hearts. 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 70 



SONGS FROiM "THE PRINCESS'^ 
I 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon; 
Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon; 



TENNYSON S39 

Father will. come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : ^5 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

II 

The splendour falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 5 

Blow', bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 10 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dymg. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 15 

And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, ^ 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dymg. 



Ill 



Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 



540 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. lo 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 15 

Dear as remember' d kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more. 20 



TO THE QUEEN 

Revered, beloved — O you that hold 

A nobler of^ce upon earth 

Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that uttered nothing base; 

And should your greatness, and the care 

That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there; 



TENNYSON 54 1 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 

And thro' wild March the throstle calls. 
Where all about your palace-walls 15 

The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 

For tho' the faults were thick as dust 

In vacant chambers, I could trust 
Your kindness. May you rule us long -20 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day! 

May children of our children say, 
"She wrought her people lasting good; 

"Her court was pure; her life serene; 25 

God gave her peace; her land reposed; 
A thousand claims to reverence closed 

In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; 

"And statesmen at her council met 

Who knew the seasons when to take 30 

Occasion by the hand, and make 
The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree. 

Which kept her throne unshaken still. 
Broad-based upon her people's will, 35 

And compass'd by the inviolate sea." 



MILTON 



O MIGHTY-MOUTH 'd inventor of harmonies, 
O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages; 



542 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 5 

Starr 'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries, 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness. 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 10 

And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle. 

And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods 15 

Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea. 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 5 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark ! 10 

And may there be no sadness of farewell. 

When I embark; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 15 

When I have crost the bar. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 

(1811-1863) 

VANITY FAIR 

Becky Sharp 

Miss Sharp's father was an artist, and in that quality 
had given lessons of drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. 
He was a clever man; a pleasant companion; a careless 
student; with a great propensity for running into debt, 
and a partiality for the tavern. When he was drunk, he 
used to beat his wife and daughter; and the next morn- 
ing, with a headache, he would rail at the world for its 
neglect of his genius, and abuse, with a good deal of 
cleverness, and sometimes with perfect reason, the fools, 
his brother painters. As it was with the utmost dilTh- 
culty that he could keep himself, and as he owed money 
for a mile round Soho, where he lived, he thought to 
better his circumstances by marrying a young woman of 
the French nation, who was by profession an opera-girl. 
The humble calling of her female parent. Miss Sharp 
never alluded to, but used to state subsequently that the 
Entrechats were a noble family of Gascony, and took 
great pride in her descent from them. And curious it 
is, that as she advanced in life this young lady's ances- 
tors increased in rank and splendour. 

Rebecca's mother had had some education somewhere, 
and her daughter spoke French with purity and a Pari- 

543 



544 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

sian accent. It was in those days rather a rare accom- 
plishment, and led to her engagement with the orthodox 
Miss Pinkerton. For her mother being dead, her father, 25 
finding himself not likely to recover, after his third 
attack of deliiium t/eniens, wrote a manly and pathetic 
letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child 
to her protection, and so descended to the grave, after 
two bailiffs had quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was 30 
seventeen when she came to Chiswick, and was bound 
over as an articled pupil; her duties being to talk 
French, as we have seen; and her privileges to live 
cost free, and, with a few guineas a year, to gather 
scraps of knowledge from the professors who attended 35 
the school. 

She was small and slight in person; pale, sandy- 
haired, and with eyes habitually cast down : when they 
looked up they were very large, odd, and attractive; so 
attractive, that the Reverend Mr. Crisp, fresh from 40 
Oxford, and curate to the Vicar of Chiswick, the Rev- 
erend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in love with Miss Sharp; 
being shot dead by a glance of her eyes which was fired 
all the way across Chiswick Church from the school-pew 
to the reading-desk. This infatuated young man used 45 
sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to whom he 
had been presented by his mamma, and actually pro- 
posed something like marriage in an intercepted note, 
which the one-eyed apple-woman was charged to deliver. 
Mrs. Crisp was summoned from Buxton, and abruptly 50 
carried off her darling boy; but the idea, even, of such 
an eagle in the Chiswick dovecot caused a great flutter 
in the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have sent 
away Miss Sharp, but that she was bound to her under 
a forfeit, and who never could thoroughly believe the 55 



THACKERAY 545 

young lady's protestations that she had never exchanged 
a single word with Mr, Crisp, except under her own 
eyes on the two occasions when she had met him at tea. 

By the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies 
in the establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. 60 
But she had the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a 
dun had she talked to, and turned away from her father's 
door; many a tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled 
into good-humour, and into the granting of one meal 
more. She sate commonly with her father, who was 65 
very proud of her wit, and heard the talk of many of 
his wild companions — often but ill-suited for a girl to 
hear. But she never had been a girl, she said; she had 
been a woman since she was eight years old. O why did 
Miss Pinkerton let such a dangerous bird into her cage? 70 

The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to be the 
meekest creature in the world, so admirably, on the 
occasions when her father brought her to Chisvvick, used 
Rebecca to perform the part of the ingenue ; and only 
a year before the arrangement by which Rebecca had 75 
been admitted into the house, and when Rebecca was 
sixteen years old, Miss Pinkerton majestically, and with 
a little speech, made her a present of a doll — which 
was, by the way, the confiscated property of Miss Swindle, 
discovered surreptitiously nursing it in school-hours. 80 
How the father and daughter laughed as they trudged 
home together after the evening party (it was on the 
occasion of the speeches, when all the professors were 
invited), and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged had 
she seen the caricature of herself which the little mimic, 85 
Rebecca, managed to make out of her doll. Becky used 
to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of 
Newman Street, Gerard Street, and the artists' quarter : 

2N 



546 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

and the young painters, when they came to take their 
gin and water with their lazy, dissolute, clever, jovial 90 
senior, used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton 
was at home : she was well known to them, poor soul ! 
as Mr. Lawrence or President West. Once Rebecca had 
the honour to pass a i^v^ days at Chiswick; after which 
she brought back Jemima, and erected another doll as 95 
Miss Jemmy : for though that honest creature had made 
and given her jelly and cake enough for three children, 
and a seven- shilling piece at parting, the girl's sense of 
ridicule was far stronger than her gratitude, and she 
sacrificed Miss Jemmy quite as pitilessly as her sister. 100 

The catastrophe came, and she was brought to the 
Mall as to her home. The rigid formality of the place 
suffocated her: the prayers and the meals, the lessons 
and the walks, which were arranged with a conventual 
regularity, oppressed her almost beyond endurance; and 105 
she looked back to the freedom and the beggary of the 
old studio in Soho with so much regret, that everybody, 
herself included, fancied she was consumed with grief for 
her father. She had a little room in the garret, where the 
maids heard her walking and sobbing at night; but it no 
was with rage, and not with grief. She had not been 
much of a dissembler, until now her loneliness taught 
her to feign. She had never mingled in the society of 
women : her father, reprobate as he was, was a man 
of talent; his conversation was a thousand times more 115 
agreeable to her than the talk of such of her own sex as 
she now encountered. The pompous vanity of the old 
schoolmistress, the foolish good-humour of her sister, 
the silly chat and scandal of the elder girls, and the 
frigid correctness of the governesses equally annoyed 120 
her ; and she h.id no soft maternal heart, this unlucky 



THACKERAY 547 

girl, otherwise the prattle and talk of the younger chil- 
dren, with whose care she was chiefly intrusted, might 
have soothed and interested her; but she lived among 
them two years, and not one was sorry that she went 125 
away. The gentle tender-hearted Amelia Sedley was the 
only person to whom she could attach herself in the 
least; and who could help attaching herself to Amelia? 

The happiness — the superior advantages of the young 
women round about her, gave Rebecca inexpressible 130 
pangs of envy. " What airs that girl gives herself, be- 
cause she is an Earl's granddaughter," she said of one. 
" How they cringe and bow to that Creole, because of her 
hundred thousand pounds ! I am a thousand times clev- 
erer and more charming than that creature, for all her 135 
wealth. I am as well bred as the Earl's granddaughter, 
for all her fine pedigree; and yet every one passes me 
by here. And yet, when I was at my father's, did not 
the men give up their gayest balls and parties in order 
to pass the evening with me? " She determined at any 140 
rate to get free from the prison in which she found her- 
self, and now began to act for herself, and for the first 
time to make connected plans for the future. 

She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study 
the place offered her; and as she was already a musician 145 
and a good linguist, she speedily went through the little 
course of study which was considered necessary for 
ladies in those days. Her music she practised inces- 
santly, and one day, when the girls were out, and she 
had remained at home, she was overheard to play a 150 
piece so well, that Minerva thought wisely, she could 
spare herself the expense of a master for the juniors, 
and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct 
them in music for the future. 



548 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the 155 
astonishment of the majestic mistress of the school. "I 
am here to speak French with the children," Rebecca 
said abruptly, " not to teach them music, and save money 
for you. Give me money, and I will teach them." 

Minerva was obliged to yield, and, of course, dis- 160 
liked her from that day. "For five-and-thirty years, " 
she said, and with great justice, "I never have seen the 
individual who had dared in my own house to question 
my authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom." 



DE FINIBUS 

Another Finis Written 

Another Finis written; another milestone passed on 
this journey from birth to the next world ! Sure it is a 
subject for solemn cogitation. Shall we continue this 
story-telling business, and be voluble to the end of our 
age? Will it not be presently time, O prattler, to hold 5 
your tongue, and let younger people speak? I have a 
friend, a painter, who, like other persons who shall be 
nameless, is growing old. He has never painted with 
such laborious finish as his works now show. This mas- 
ter is still the most humble and diligent of scholars. 10 
Of Art, his mistress, he is always an eager, reverent 
pupil. In his calling, in yours, in mine, industry and 
humility will help and comfort us. A word with you. 
In a pretty large experience, I have not found the men 
who write books superior in wit or learning to those 15 
who don't write at all. In regard of mere information, 
non-writers must often be superior to writers. You 
don't expect a lawyer in full practice to be conversant 



THACKERAY 549 

with all kinds of literature, he is too busy with his law; 
and so a writer is commonly too busy with his own 20 
books to be able to bestow attention on the works of 
other people. After a day's work (in which I have been 
depicting, let us say, the agonies of Louisa on parting 
with the captain, or the atrocious behavior of the wicked 
marquis to Lady Emily) I march to the Club, propose 25 
to improve my mind and keep myself "posted up," as 
the Americans phrase it, with the literature of the day. 
And what happens? Given, a walk after luncheon, a 
pleasing book, and a most comfortable arm-chair by the 
fire, and you know the rest. A doze ensues. Pleasing 30 
book drops suddenly, is picked up once with an air of 
some confusion, is laid presently softly in lap; head 
falls on comfortable arm-chair cushion; eyes close; soft 
nasal music is heard. Am I telling Club secrets? Of 
afternoons, after lunch, I say, scores of sensible fogies 35 
have a doze. Perhaps I have fallen asleep over that 
very book to which "Finis" has just been written. 
And if the writer sleeps, what happens to the readers? 
says Jones, coming down upon me with his lightning 
wit. What ! you did sleep over it? And a very good 40 
thing too. These eyes have more than once seen a 
friend dozing over pages which this hand has written. 
There is a vignette somewhere in one of my books of a 
friend so caught napping with Pendennis, or the New- 
comes, in his lap; and if a writer can give you a sweet, 45 
soothing, harmless sleep, has he not done you a kind- 
ness? So is the author who excites and interests you 
worthy of your thanks and benedictions. I am troubled 
with fever and ague, that seizes me at odd intervals and 
prostrates me for a day. There is cold fit, for which, I 50 
am thankful to say, hot brandy-and-water is prescribed, 



550 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

and this induces hot fit, and so on. In one or two of 
these fits I have read novels with the most fearful con- 
tentment of mind. Once, on the Mississippi, it was my 
A^zx\^\i^\(yit^ Jacob Faithful ; once, at Frankfort O. M., 55 
the delightful Vingt Ans Apres of Monsieur Dumas; 
once, at Tunbridge Wells, the thrilling Woman in 
White; and these books gave me amusement from 
morning till sunset. I remember those ague-frts with a 
great deal of pleasure and gratitude. Think of a whole 60 
day in bed, and a good novel for a companion ! No 
cares, no remorse about idleness, no visitors, and the 
Woman in White or the Chevalier d' Artagnan to tell me 
stories from dawn to night! "Please, ma'am, my mas- 
ter's compliments, and can he have the third volume?" 65 
(This message was sent to an astonished friend and 
neighbor who lent me, volume by volume, the W. in 
W. ) How do you like your novels? I like mine 
strong, "hot with," and no mistake; no love-making, 
no observations about society, little dialogue, except 70 
where the characters are bullying each other, plenty of 
fighting, and a villain in the cupboard who is to suffer 
tortures just before Finis. I don't like your melancholy 
Finis. I never read the history of a consumptive hero- 
ine twice. ... 75 

Among the sins of commission which novel-writers 
not seldom perpetrate is the sin of grandiloquence, or 
tall-talking, against which, for my part, I will offer up 
a special libera me. This is the sin of schoolmasters, 
governesses, critics, sermoners, and instructors of young 80 
or old people. Nay (for I am making a clean breast, 
and liberating my soul), perhaps of all the novel-spin- 
ners now extant, the present speaker is the most ad- 
dicted to preaching. Does he not stop perpetually in 



THA CKERA V 5 5 I 

his story and begin to preach to you? When he ought 85 
to be engaged with business, is he not forever taking 
the Muse by the sleeve and plaguing her with some of 
his cynical sermons? I cxy peccavi loudly and heartily. 
I tell you I would like to be able to write a story which 
should show no egotism whatever — in which there 90 
should be no reflections, no cynicism, no vulgarity (and 
so forth), but an incident in every other page, a villain, 
a battle, a mystery in every chapter. I should like to be 
able to feed a reader so spicily as to leave him hungering 
and thirsting for more at the end of every monthly meal. 95 

Alexandre Dumas describes himself, when inventing 
the plan of a work, as lying silent on his back for two 
whole days on the deck of a yacht in a Mediterranean 
port. At the end of the two days he arose and called 
for dinner. In those two days he had built his plot. 100 
He had moulded a mighty clay, to be cast presently in 
perennial brass. The chapters, the characters, the inci- 
dents, the combinations, were all arranged in the artist's 
brain ere he set a pen to paper. My Pegasus won't fly, 
so as to let me survey the field below me. He has no 105 
wings; he is blind of one eye certainly; he is restive, 
stubborn, slow; crops a hedge when he ought to be gal- 
loping, or gallops when he ought to be quiet. He never 
will show off when I want him. Sometimes he goes at 
a pace which surprises me. Sometimes, when I most no 
wish him to make the running, the brute turns restive, 
and I am obliged to let him take his own time. I 
wonder do other novel-writers experience this fatalism? 
They must go a certain way, in spite of themselves. I 
have been surprised at the observations made by some 115 
of my characters. It seems as if an occult Power was 
moving the pen. The personage does or says something. 



552 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

and I ask, How the dickens did he come to think of 
that? Every man has remarked in dreams the vast dra- 
matic power which is sometimes evinced — I won't say 120 
the surprising power — for nothing does surprise you in 
dreams. But those strange characters you meet make 
instant observations of which you never can have thought 
previously. In like manner, the imagination foretells 
things. We spake anon of the inflated style of some 125 
writers. What, also, if there is an afflatcd style, when 
a writer is like a Pythoness on her oracle tripod, and 
mighty words — words which he cannot help — come 
blowing and bellowing and whistling and moaning 
through the speaking-pipes of his bodily organ? I 130 
have told you it was a very queer shock to me the 
other day when, with a letter of introduction in his 
hand, the artist's (not my) Philip Firmin walked into 
this room and sat down in the chair opposite. In the 
novel of Pendennis, written ten years ago, there is an 135 
account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented (as 
I suppose authors invent their personages out of scraps, 
heel-taps, odds and ends of characters). I was smoking 
in a tavern parlor one night, and this Costigan came 
into the room alive — the very man — the most remark- 140 
able resemblance of the printed sketches of the man, of , 
the rude drawings in which I had depicted him. He 
had the same little coat, the same battered hat cocked on 
one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. "Sir," said I, 
knowing him to be an old friend whom I had met in 145 
unknown regions — "sir," I said, "may I offer you a 
glass of brandy-and-water ? " — '^ Bedad ye inay,^' says he, 
^'' and r II sing you a song tu^ Of course he spoke with 
an Irish brogue. Of course he had been in the army. 
In ten minutes he pulled out an army agent's account, 150 



THA CKERA Y 553 

whereon his name was written. A few months after we 
read of him in a police court. How had I come to 
know him, to divine him? Nothing shall convince me 
that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits. 
In the world of spirits-and-water I know I did; but that 155 
is a mere quibble of words. I was not surprised when 
he spoke in an Irish brogue. I had had cognizance of 
him before, somehow. Who has not felt that little shock 
which arises when a person, a place, some words in a 
book (there is always a collocation) present themselves 160 
to you, and you know that you have before met the 
same person, words, scene, and so forth? ... 

I had a capital half hour with Jacob Faithful last 
night — when the last sheet was corrected, when " Finis " 
had been written, and the printer's boy, with the copy, 165 
was safe in Green Arbor Court. So you are gone, little 
printer's boy, with the last scratches and corrections on 
the proof, and a fine flourish by way of Finis at the 
story's end. The last corrections? I say those last cor- 
rections seem never to be finished. A plague upon the 170 
weeds! Every day, when I walk in my own little liter- 
ary garden-plot, I spy some, and should like to have a 
spud and root them out. Those idle words, neighbor, 
are past remedy. That turning back to the old pages 
produces anything but elation of mind. Would you not 175 
pay a pretty fine to be able to cancel some of them? 
Oh, the sad old pages, the dull old pages ! Oh, the 
cares, the ennui, the squabbles, the repetitions, the old 
conversations over and over again. But now and again 
a kind thought is recalled, and now and again a dear 180 
memory. Yet a few chapters more, and then the last : 
after which, behold Finis itself come to an end, and 
the Infinite begun. 



CHARLES DICKENS 

(1811-1870) 

OLIVER TWIST 
Sikes and his Dog 

He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind 
hira, and plunged into the solitude and darkness of the 
road, he felt a dread and awe creeping upon him which 
shook him to the core. Every object before him, sub- 
stance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance 5 
of some fearful thing; but these fears were nothing 
compared to the sense that haunted him of that morn- 
ing's ghastly figure following at his heels. He could 
trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item 
of the outline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed 10 
to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in 
the leaves; and every breath of wind came laden with 
that last low cry. If he stopped it did the same. If 
he ran, it followed — not running too; that would have 
been a relief: but like a corpse endowed with the mere 15 
machinery of life, and borne on one slow melancholy 
wind that never rose or fell. 

At times, he turned, with desperate determination, 
resolved to beat this phantom off, though it should look 
him dead; but the hair rose on his head, and his blood 20 
stood still : for it had turned with him and was behind 
him then. He had kept it before him that morning, 

554 



DICKENS 555 

but it was behind him now — always. He leaned his 
back against a bank, and felt that it stood above him, 
visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw him- 25 
self upon the road — on his back upon the road. At 
his head it stood, silent, erect, and still — a living grave- 
stone, with its epitaph in blood. 

Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and 
hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty 30 
score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony 
of fear. 

There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered 
shelter for the night. Before the door, were three tall 
poplar trees, which made it very dark within; and the 35 
wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He 
could not walk on, till daylight came again; and here 
he stretched himself close to the wall — to undergo new 
torture. 

For now, a vision came before him, as constant and 40 
more terrible than that from which he had escaped. 
Those widely staring eyes, so lustreless and so glassy, 
that he had better borne to see them than think upon 
them, appeared in the midst of the darkness : light in 
themselves, but giving light to nothing. There were 45 
but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the 
sight, there came the room with every well-known object 
— some, indeed, that he would have forgotten, if he had 
gone over its contents from memory — each in its accus- 
tomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes 50 
were as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, 
and rushed into the field without. The figure was 
behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrank down 
once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid 
himself along. 55 



556 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And here he remained, in such terror as none but he 
can know, trembling in every limb, and the cold sweat 
starting from every pore, when suddenly there arose 
upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and 
the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any 60 
sound of men in that lonely place, even though it con- 
veyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. He 
regained his strength and energy at the prospect of per- 
sonal danger; and, springing to his feet, rushed into the 
open air. 65 

The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air 
with showers of sparks, and rolling one above the other, 
were sheets of flame, lighting the atmosphere for miles 
round, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction 
where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices 70 
swelled the roar, and he could hear the cry of Fire ! 
mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, the fall of 
heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined 
round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though re- 
freshed by food. The noise increased as he looked. 75 
There were people there — men and women — light, 
bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted on- 
ward ■ — straight, headlong — dashing through brier and 
brake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as the 
dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before 80 
him. 

He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed 
figures tearing lo and fro, some endeavouring to drag 
the frightened horses from the stables, others driving 
the cattle from the yard and outhouses, and others com- 85 
ing laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower of 
falling sparks, and the tumbling down of redhot beams. 
The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour 



DICKENS 557 

ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and 
crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and 90 
iron poured down, white hot, upon the ground. Women 
and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other 
with noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the 
engine-pumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water 
as it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremen- 95 
dous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and, 
flying from memory and himself, plunged into the 
thickest of the throng. 

Hither and thither he dived that night: now working 
a't the pumps, and now hurrying through the smoke and 100 
flame, but never ceasing to engage himself wherever 
noise and men were thickest. Up and down the lad- 
ders, upon the roofs of buildings, over floors that 
quaked and trembled with his weight, under the lee 
of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great 105 
fire was he ; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither 
scratch nor bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morn- 
ing dawned again, and only smoke and blackened ruins 
remained. 

This mad excitement over, there returned, with ten- no 
fold force, the dreadful consciousness of his crime. He 
looked suspiciously about him, for the men were con- 
versing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of 
their talk. The dog obeyed the significant beck of his 
finger, and they drew off, stealthily, together. He 115 
passed near an engine where some men were seated, 
and they called to him to share in their refreshment. 
He took some bread and meat; and as he drank a 
draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were from 
London, talking about the murder. " He has gone to 120 
Birmingham, they say," said one: "but they'll have him 



558 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

yet, for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night 
there'll be a cry all through the country." 

He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped 
upon the ground; then lay down in a lane, and had a 125 
long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on 
again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the 
fear of another solitary night. 

Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution of going 
back to London. 130 

"There's somebody to speak to there, at all events," 
he thought. "A good hiding-place, too. They'll never 
expect to nab me there, after this country scent. Why 
can't I lay by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from 
Fagin, get abroad to France? Damme, I'll risk it." 135 

He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choos- 
ing the least frequented roads began his journey back, 
resolved to lie concealed within a short distance of the 
metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by a circuitous 
route, to proceed straight to that part of it which he 140 
had fixed on for his destination. 

The dog, though — if any descriptions of him were 
out, it would not be forgotten that the dog was missing, 
and had probably gone with him. This might lead to 
his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He 145 
resolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about 
for a pond : picking up a heavy stone and tying it to 
his handkerchief as he went. 

The animal looked up into his master's face while 
these preparations were making; and, whether his in- 150 
stinct apprehended something of their purpose, or the 
robber's sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, 
skulked a little farther in the rear than usual, and cow- 
ered as he came more slowly along. When his master 



DICKENS 559 

halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to call 155 
him, he stopped outright. 

"Do you hear me call? Come here ! " cried Sikes. 

The animal came up from the very force of habit; but 
as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, 
he uttered a low growl and started back. 160 

"Come back!" said the robber, stamping on the 
ground. 

The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made 
a running noose and called him again. 

The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, 165 
turned, and scoured away at his hardest speed. 

The man whistled again and again, and sat down and 
waited in the expectation that he would return. But 
no dog appeared, and at length he resumed his journey. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL 

Ch7'istmas at the Cratchits' 

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit's wife, dressed 
out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in 
ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for 
sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda 
Cratchit, second of her daughters, also brave in rib- 
bons; while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into 
the saucepan of potatoes, and getting the corners of his 
monstrous shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred 
upon his son and heir in honour of the day) into his 
mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired, and 
yearned to show his linen in the fashionable Parks. 
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came 



560 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's they had 
smelt the goose, and known it for their own; and bask- 
ing in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, these young 15 
Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted Master 
Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, al- 
though his collar nearly choked him) blew the fire, 
until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at 
the saucepan-lid to be let out and peeled. 20 

"What has ever got your precious father then? " said 
Mrs, Cratchit. " And your brother, Tiny Tim ! And 
Martha warn't as late last Christmas Day by half-an- 
hour!" 

"Here's Martha, mother!" said a girl, appearing as 25 
she spoke. 

"Here's Martha, mother! " cried the two young Crat- 
chits. "Hurrah! There's j-z/r/^ a goose, Martha! " 

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late you 
are ! " said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and 30 
taking off her shawl and bonnet for her with officious 
zeal. 

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied 
the girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother! " 

"Well! Never mind so long as you are come," said 35 
Mrs. Cratchit. " Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, 
and have a warm. Lord bless ye ! " 

"No, no! There's father coming," cried the two 
young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. " Hide, 
Martha, hide ! " 40 

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the 
father, with at least three feet of comforter, exclusive of 
the fringe, hanging down before him; and his J;hread- 
bare clothes darned up and brushed to look seasonable; 
and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, 45 



DICKENS 561 

he bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by 
an iron frame ! 

"Why, where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchit, 
looking round. 

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit. 50 

"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declension 
in his high spirits; for he had been Tim's blood horse 
all the way from church, and had come home rampant. 
"Not coming upon Christmas Day! " 

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were 55 
only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind 
the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two 
young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off 
into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding 
singing in the copper. 60 

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Crat- 
chit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and 
Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content. 

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow 
he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and 65 
thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told 
me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him 
in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might 
be pleasant to them to remember, upon Christmas Day, 
who made lame beggars walk and blind men see." 70 

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, 
and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was 
growing strong and hearty. 

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and 
back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, 75 
escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the 
lire; and while Bob^ turning up his cuffs — as if, poor 
fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby 
2 o 



562 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

— compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and 
lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on 80 
the hob to simmer; Master Peter, and the two ubiqui- 
tous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which 
they soon returned in high procession. 

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a 
goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, 85 
to which a black swan was a matter of course — and in 
truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. 
Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little 
saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the pota- 
toes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up 90 
the apple sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob 
took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; 
the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not for- 
getting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, 
crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should 95 
shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. 
At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It 
was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, 
looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to 
plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the 100 
long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur 
of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, 
excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table 
with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah ! 

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't 105 
believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tender- 
ness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of 
universal admiration. Eked out by the apple sauce and 
mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole 
family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight no 
(surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they 



DICKENS 563 

hadn't ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, 
and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped 
in sage and onion to the eyebrows ! But now, the plates 
being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the 115 
room alone — too nervous to bear witnesses — to take the 
pudding up and bring it in. 

Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it 
should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody should 
have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, 120 
while they were merry with the goose — a supposition at 
which the two young Cratchits became livid ! All sorts 
of horrors were supposed. 

Hallo ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding was out 
of the copper. A smell like a washing-day ! That was 125 
the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry- 
cook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next 
door to that ! That was the pudding ! In half a minute 
Mrs. Cratchit entered — flushed, but smiling proudly — 
with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard 130 
and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited 
brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the 
top. 

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and 
calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success 135 
achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. 
Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she 
would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity 
of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but 
nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for 140 
a large family. It would have been fiat heresy to do so. 
Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing. 

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, 
the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound 



564 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples 145 
and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel- full 
of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family 
drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a 
circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow 
stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a 150 
custard-cup without a handle. 

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well 
as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it 
out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire 
sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed : 155 

"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless 
us!" 

Which all the family re-echoed. 

"God bless us every one ! " said Tiny Tim, the last of 
all. 160 

He sat very close to his father's side upon his little 
stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if 
he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, 
and dreaded that he might be taken from him. 



THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER 

The Very Queer Small Boy 

I GOT into the travelling chariot — it was of German 



^t) 



make, roomy, heavy, and unvarnished — I got into the 
travelling chariot, pulled up the steps after me, shut 
myself in with a smart bang of the door, and gave the 
word, "Go on! " 

Immediately, all that W. and S. W. division of London 
began to slide away at a pace so lively, that I was over 



DICKENS 565 

the river, and past the Old Kent Road, and out on 
Blackheath, and even ascending Shooter's Hill, before 
I had had time to look about me in the carriage, like a 10 
collected traveller. 

I had two ample Imperials on the roof, other fitted 
storage for luggage in front, and other up behind; I 
had a net for books overhead, great pockets to all the 
windows, a leathern pouch or two hung up for odds and 15 
ends, and a reading lamp fixed in the back of the 
chariot, in case I should be benighted. I was amply 
provided in all respects, and had no idea where I was 
going (which was delightful), except that I was going 
abroad. 20 

So smooth was the old high road, and so fresh were 
the horses, and so fast went I, that it was midway be- 
tween Gravesend and Rochester, and the widening river 
was bearing the ships, white-sailed or black-smoked, out 
to sea, when I noticed by the wayside a very queer small 25 
boy. 

" Halloa ! " said I, to the very queer small boy, "where 
do you live? " 

"At Chatiiam," says he. 

"What do you do there? " says I. 30 

"I go to school," says he. 

I took him up in a moment, and we went on. Pres- 
ently, the very queer small boy says, "This is Gads-hill 
we are coming to, where Falstaff went out to rob those 
travellers, and ran away." 35 

"You know something about Falstaff, eh?" said I. 

"All about him," said the very queer small boy. "I 
am old (I am nine), and I read all sorts of books. But 
do let us stop at the top of the hill, and look at the 
house there, if you please ! " 40 



566 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

"You admire that house?" said I. 

"Bless you, sir," said the very queer small boy, "when 
I was not more than half as old as nine, it used to be a 
treat for me to be brought to look at it. And now I am 
nine, I come by myself to look at it. And ever since I 45 
can recollect, my father, seeing me so fond of it, has 
often said to me, ' If you were to be very persevering 
and were to work hard, you might some day come to live 
in it.' Though that's impossible! " said the very queer 
small boy, drawing a low breath, and now staring at the 50 
house out of window with all his might. 

I was rather amazed to be told this by the very queer 
small boy; for that house happens to be my house, and 
I have reason to believe that what he said was true. 

Well ! I made no halt there, and I soon dropped the 55 
very queer small boy and went on. 



ROBERT BROWNING 

(1812-1889) 

WANTING IS — WHAT? 

Wanting is — what? 
Summer redundant, 
Blueness abundant, 

— Where is the spot? 

Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, 5 

— Framework which waits for a picture to frame : 
What of the leafage, what of the flower? 

Roses embowering with nought they embower ! 

Come then, complete incompletion, O Comer, 

Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer I 10 

Breathe but one breath 

Rose-beauty above. 

And all that was death 

Grows life, grows love. 

Grows love ! ^5 

MY STAR 

All that I know 

Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 

(Like the angled spar) 
Now a dart of red, s 

Now a dart of blue ; 
Till my friends have said 
567 



568 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

They would fain see, too, 
My star that dartles the red and the blue ! 
Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: 

They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. 
What matter to me if their star is a world? 

Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. 



PIPPA'S SONG 

The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn: 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world! 



CONFESSIONS 
I 

What is he buzzing in my ears? 

"Now that I come to die, 
Do I view the world as a vale of tears? " 

Ah, reverend sir, not I ! 

II 

What I viewed there once, what I view again 

Where the physic bottles stand 
On the table's edge, — is a suburb lane. 

With a wall to my bedside hand. 



BROWNING 569 



III 



That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 
From a house you could descry 

O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue 
Or green to a healthy eye? 



IV 



To mine, it serves for the old June weather 

Blue above lane and wall; 
And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether" 

Is the house o'er-topping all. 



At a terrace, somewhat near the stopper, 

There watched for me, one June, 
A girl: I know, sir, it's improper, 

My poor mind's out of tune. 20 

VI 

Only, there was a way . . . you crept 

Close by the side, to dodge 
Eyes in the house, two eyes except: 

They styled their house "The Lodge." 

VII 

What right had a lounger up their lane? 25 

But, by creeping very close. 
With the good wall's help, — their eyes might strain 

And stretch themselves to Oes, 



570 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

viir 

Yet never catch her and me together, 

As she left the attic, there, 30 

By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether," 

And stole from stair to stair, 

IX 

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, 

We loved, sir — used to meet : 
How sad and bad and mad it was — 35 

But then, how it was sweet ! 



— ♦- 



RESPECTABILITY 
I 

Dear, had the world in its caprice 

Deigned to proclaim " I know you both, 
Have recognized your plighted troth, 

Am sponsor for you : live in peace ! " — 

How many precious months and years 
Of youth had passed, that speed so fast. 
Before we found it out at last, 

The world, and what it fears? 

II 

How much of priceless life were spent 

With men that every virtue decks. 

And women models of their sex. 
Society's true ornament, — 
Ere we dared wander, nights like this, 

Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine, 

And feel the Boulevart break again 
To warmth and light and bliss? 



BROWNING 571 

III 

I know! the world proscribes not love; 

Allows my finger to caress 

Your lips' contour and downiness, 
Provided it supply a glove. 20 

The world's good word ! — the Institute ! 

Guizot receives Montalembert ! 

Eh? Down the court three lampions flare: 
Put forward your best foot ! 



HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

Oh, to be in England now that April's there, 
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, una- 
ware. 
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 5 

In England — now ! 
And after April, when May follows 
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows ! 
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover to 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 
That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over 
Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 15 

And will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 
— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 



5/2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the north-west died 

away ; 
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz 

Bay; 
Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; 
In the dimmest north-east distance, dawned Gibraltar 

grand and gray; 
" Here and here did England help me, — how can I help 5 

England? " — say. 
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise 

and pray. 
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 



PROSPICE 



Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place. 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 5 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go : 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall, 10 

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 15 

And bade me creep past. 



BROWNING 573 

No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness and cold. 20 

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave. 

The black minute's at end, 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 25 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! 

I shall clasp thee again. 
And with God be the rest ! 



MEMORABILIA 
I 

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain. 
And did he stop and speak to you, 

And did you speak to him again? 
How strange it seems, and new ! 

II 

But you were living before that, 

And also you are living after; 
And the memory I started at — 

My starting moves your laughter ! 

Ill 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 

Yet a hand's -breadth of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about; 



574 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 



IV 



For there I picked up on the heather 

And there I put inside my breast 
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 15 

Well, I forget the rest. 



DEATH IN THE DESERT 

^^ Three Souls, One Man'" 

"Three souls which make up one soul; first, to wit, 

A soul of each and all the bodily parts. 

Seated therein, which works, and is what Does, 

And has the use of earth, and ends the man 

Downward; but tending upward for advice, 5 

Grows into, and again is grown into 

By the next soul, which, seated in the brain, 

Useth the first with its collected use, 

And feeleth, thinketh, willeth, — is what Knows: 

Which duly tending upward in its turn, 10 

Grows into, and again is grown into 

By the last soul, that uses both the first, 

Subsisting whether they assist or no. 

And, constituting man's self, is what Is — 

And leans upon the former, makes it play, 15 

As that played off the first : and, tending up, 

Holds, is upheld by, God, and ends the man 

Upward in that dread point of intercourse. 

Nor needs a place, for it returns to Him. 

What Does, what Knows, what Is; three souls, one man." 20 



GEORGE ELIOT 

(1819-1880) 

ADAM BEDE 
A Farm House 

Evidently that gate is never opened : for the long 
grass and the great hemlocks grow close against it; and 
if it were opened, it is so rusty, that the force necessary 
to turn it on its hinges would be likely to pull down the 
square stone-built pillars, to the detriment of the two 5 
stone lionesses which grin with a carnivorous affability 
above a coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. 
It would be easy enough, by the aid of the nicks in the 
stone pillars, to climb over the brick wall with its smooth 
stone coping; but by putting our eyes close to the rusty 10 
bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough, and 
all but the very corners of the grassy enclosure. 

It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by 
a pale powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with a 
happy irregularity, so as to bring the red brick into 15 
terms of friendly companionship with the limestone or- 
naments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and 
the door-place. But the windows are patched with 
wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the gate 
— it is never opened : how it would groan and grate 20 
against the stone floor if it were ! For it is a solid, 
heavy, handsome door, and must once have been in the 
habit of shutting with a sonorous bang behind a liveried 

575 



5/6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

lackey, who had just seen his master and mistress off the 
grounds in a carriage and pair. 25 

But at present one might fancy the house in the early 
stage of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that 
grand double row of walnut-trees on the right hand of 
the enclosure would fall and rot among the grass, if it 
were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs 'echo- 30 
ing from great buildings at the back. And now the half- 
weaned calves that have been sheltering themselves in a 
gorse-built hovel against the left-hand wall, come out 
and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless 
supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk. 35 

Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by 
whom; for imagination is a licensed trespasser; it has 
no fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in 
at windows with impunity. Put your face to one of the 
glass panes in the right-hand window; what do you see? 40 
A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs in it, and a bare- 
boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool stacked 
up; in the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags. 
That is the furniture of the dining-room. And what 
through the left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, 45 
a pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open, 
and stuffed full of coloured rags. At the edge of this 
box there lies a great wooden doll, which, so far as 
mutilation is concerned, bears a strong resemblance to 
the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total 50 
loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the 
butt-end of a boy's leather long-lashed whip. 

The history of the house is plain now. It was once 
the residence of a country squire, whose family, prob- 
ably dwindling down to mere spinsterhood, got merged 55 
in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. It was 



ELIOT 



S77 



once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life 
in some coast town that was once a watering-place, and 
is now a port, where the genteel streets are silent and 
grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy and res- 60 
onant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no 
longer radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen 
and the farm-yard. 

Plenty of life there ! though this is the drowsiest time 
of the year, just before the hay-harvest; and it is the 65 
drowsiest time of the day too, for it is close upon three 
by the sun, and it is half -past three by Mrs. Poyser's 
handsome eight day clock. But there is always a 
stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after 
rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, and mak- 70 
ing sparks among the wet straw, and lighting up every 
patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow- 
shed, and turning even the muddy water that is hurrying 
along the channel to the drain into a mirror for the yel- 
low-billed ducks, who are seizing the opportunity of get- 75 
ting a drink with as much body in it as possible. There 
is quite a concert of noises : the great bull-dog, chained 
against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation 
by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of 
his kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is So 
answered by two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite 
cow-house; the old top -knotted hens, scratching with 
their chicks among the straw, set up a sympathetic 
croaking as the discomfited cock joins them; a sow 
with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and 85 
curled as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato 
notes; our friends the calves are bleating from the same 
home croft; and under all a fine ear discerns the con- 
tinuous hum of human voices. 
2 p 



5/8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and 90 
men are busy there mending the harness, under the super- 
intendence of Mr. Goby, the "whittaw," otherwise sad- 
dler, who entertains them with the latest Treddleston 
gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day that 
Alick, the shepherd, has chosen for having the whit- 95 
taws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs. 
Poyser had spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the 
dirt which the extra number of men's shoes brought 
into the house at dinner-time. Indeed she has not yet 
recovered her equanimity on the subject, though it is 100 
now nearly three hours since dinner, and the house floor 
is perfectly clean again; as clean as everything else in 
that wonderful house-place, where the only chance of 
collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the 
salt-coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel-shelf 105 
on which the glittering brass candle-sticks are enjoying 
their summer sinecure; for at this time of year, of 
course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, or 
at least light enough to discern the outline of objects 
after you have bruised your shins against them. Surely no 
nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an oak table 
have got such a polish by the hand: genuine "elbow 
polish," as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God 
she never had any of your varnished rubbish in her 
house. Hetty Sorrel often took the opportunity, when 115 
her aunt's back was turned, of looking at the pleasant 
reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for the oak 
table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more for 
ornament than for use; and she could see herself some- 
times in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged 120 
on the shelves above the long deal dinner table, or in 
the hobs of the grate, which always shone like jasper. 



ELIOT 



579 



Everything was looking at its brightest at this mo- 
ment, for the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, 
and from their reflecting surfaces pleasant jets of light 125 
were thrown on mellow oak and bright brass; — ^ and on 
a still pleasanter object than these; for some of the rays 
fell on Dinah's finely moulded cheek, and lit up her 
pale red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy 
household linen which she was mending for her aunt. 130 
No scene could have been more peaceful ; if Mrs. Poy- 
ser, who was ironing a few things that still remained 
from the Monday's wash, had not been making frequent 
clinking with her iron, and moving to and fro whenever 
she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of her 135 
blue-gray eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty 
was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the 
back-kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of 
the oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs. Poyser 
was elderly or shrewish in her appearance; she was a 140 
good-looking woman, not more than eight-and-thirty, 
of fair complexion and sandy hair, well-shapen, light- 
footed : the most conspicuous article in her attire was 
an ample, checkered linen apron, which almost covered 
her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less notice- 145 
able than her cap and gown, for there was no weakness 
of which she was less tolerant than feminine vanity, and 
the preference of ornament to utility. The family like- 
ness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the 
contrast between her keenness and Dinah's seraphic gen- 150 
tleness of expression, might have served a painter as an 
excellent suggestion for a A^lartha and Mary. Their eyes 
were just of the same colour, but a striking test of the 
difference in their operation was seen in the demeanour 
of Trip, the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much- 155 



58o FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

suspected dog unwarily exposed himself, to the freezing 
arctic ray of Mrs. Peyser's glances. Her tongue was 
not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel 
came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfinished 
lecture, as a barrel-organ takes up a tune, precisely at i6o 
the point where it had left off. 



ROMOLA 
Savonarola' s Benediction 

About ten o'clock on the morning of the twenty- 
seventh of February the currents of passengers along the 
Florentine streets set decidedly towards San Marco. It 
was the last morning of the Carnival, and every one 
knew there was a second Bonfire of Vanities being pre- 5 
pared in front of the Old Palace; but at this hour it 
was evident that the centre of popular interest lay else- 
where. 

The Piazza di San Marco was filled by a multitude 
who showed no other movement than that which pro- 10 
ceeded from the pressure of new comers trying to force 
their way forward from all the openings, but the front 
ranks were already close-serried, and resisted the press- 
ure. Those ranks were ranged around a semicircular 
barrier in front of the church, and within this barrier 15 
were already assembling the Dominican Brethren of San 
Marco. 

But the temporary wooden pulpit erected over the 
church-door was still empty. It was presently to be 
entered by the man whom the Pope's command had 20 
banished from the pulpit of the Duomo, whom the other 



ELIOT 581 

ecclesiastics of Florence had been forbidden to consort 
with, whom the citizens had been forbidden to hear on 
pain of excommunication. This man had said, "A 
wicked, unbelieving Pope who had gained the pontifi- 25 
cal chair by bribery is not Christ's Vicar. His curses 
are broken swords: he grasps a hilt without a blade. 
His commands are contrary to the Christian life : it is 
lawful to disobey them — nay, // is not laiuful to obey 
themy And the people still flocked to hear him as he 30 
preached in his own church of San Marco, though the 
Pope was hanging terrible threats over Florence if it 
did not renounce the pestilential schismatic, and send 
him to Rome to be "converted " — still, as on this very 
morning, accepted the Communion from his excommu- 35 
nicated hands. For how if this Pirate had really more 
command over the Divine lightnings than that official 
successor of Saint Peter? It was a momentous question, 
which for the mass of citizens could never be decided 
by the Frate's ultimate test, namely, what was and what 40 
was not accordant with the highest spiritual law. No; 
in such a case as this, if God had chosen the Frate as 
his prophet to rebuke the High Priest who carried the 
mystic raiment unworthily, he would attest his choice 
by some unmistakable sign. As long as the belief in 45 
the prophet carried no threat of outward calamity, but 
rather the confident hope of exceptional safety, no sign 
was needed; his preaching was a music to which the 
people felt themselves marching along the way they 
wished to go; but now that belief meant an immediate 50 
blow to their commerce, the shaking of their position 
among the Italian States, and an interdict on their city, 
there inevitably came the question, " What miracle show- 
est thou?" Slowly at first, then faster and faster, that 



582 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

fatal demand had been swelling in Savonarola's ear, pro- 55 
yoking a response, outwardly in the declaration that at 
the fitting time the miracle would come; inwardly in 
the faith — not unwavering, for what faith is so ? — that 
if the need for miracle became urgent, the work he had 
before him was too great for the Divine power to leave 60 
it halting. His faith wavered, but not his speech; it 
is the lot of every man who has to speak for the satisfac- 
tion of the crowd, that he must often speak in virtue of 
yesterday's faith, hoping it will come back to-morrow. 

It was in preparation for a scene, which was really a 65 
response to the popular impatience for some supernatu- 
ral guarantee of the Prophet's mission, that the wooden 
pulpit had been erected above the church door. But 
while the ordinary Frati in black mantles were entering 
and arranging themselves, the faces of the multitude 70 
were not yet eagerly directed towards the pulpit; it 
was felt that Savonarola would not appear just yet, and 
there was some interest in singling out the various 
monks, some of them belonging to high Florentine fam- 
ilies, many of them having fathers, brothers, or cousins 75 
among the artisans and shopkeepers who made the ma- 
jority of the crowd. It was not till the tale of monks 
was complete, not till they had fluttered their books and 
had begun to chant, that people said to each other, 
"Fra Girolamo must be coming now." 80 

That expectation rather than any spell from the accus- 
tomed wail of psalmody was what made silence, and 
expectation seemed to spread like a paling solemn light 
over the multitude of upturned faces, all now directed 
towards the empty pulpit. 85 

The next instant the pulpit was no longer empty. A 
figure covered from head to foot in black cowl and 



ELIOT 583 

mantle had entered it, and was kneeling with bent head 
and with face turned away. It seemed a weary time to 
the eager people while the black figure knelt and the 90 
monks chanted. But the stillness was not broken, for 
the Frate's audiences with heaven were yet charged with 
electric awe for that mixed multitude, so that those who 
already had the will to stone him felt their arms unnerved. 

At last there was a vibration among the multitude, 95 
each seeming to give his neighbour a momentary aspen- 
like touch, as when men who have been watching for 
something in the heavens see the expected presence 
silently disclosing itself. The Frate had risen, turned 
towards the people, and partly pushed back his cowl. 100 
The monotonous wail of psalmody had ceased, and to 
those who stood near the pulpit, it was as if the sounds 
which had just been filling their ears had suddenly 
merged themselves in the force of Savonarola's flaming 
glance as he looked round him in the silence. Then he 105 
stretched out his hands, which, in their exquisite deli- 
cacy, seemed transfigured from an animal organ for 
grasping into vehicles of sensibility too acute to need 
any gross contact, hands that came like an appealing 
speech from that part of his soul which was masked by no 
his strong passionate face, written on now with deeper 
lines about the mouth and brow than are made by forty- 
four years of ordinary life. 

At the first stretching out of the hands some of the 
crowd in the front ranks fell on their knees, and here 115 
and there a devout disciple farther off; but the great 
majority stood firm, some resisting the impulse to kneel 
before this excommunicated man (might not a great 
judgment fall upon him even in this act of blessing?) 
— others jarred with scorn and hatred of the ambitious 120 



584 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

deceiver who was getting up this new comedy, before 
which, nevertheless, they felt themselves impotent, as 
before the triumph of a fashion. 

But then came the voice, clear and low at first, utter- 
ing the words of absolution — ^^ Misereati/r vesiri'''' — 125 
and more fell on their knees; and as it rose higher and 
yet clearer, the erect heads became fewer and fewer, till at 
the words '"'' Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus," it rose to a 
masculine cry, as if protesting its power to bless under 
the clutch of a demon that wanted to stifle it; it rang 130 
like a trumpet to the extremities of the Piazza, and 
under it every head was bowed. 

After the utterance of that blessing, Savonarola him- 
self fell on his knees, and hid his face in temporary 
exhaustion. Those great jets of emotion were a neces- 135 
sary part of his life; he himself had said to the people 
long ago, "Without preaching I cannot live." But it 
was a life that shattered him. 

In a few minutes more, some had risen to their feet, 
but a large number remained kneeling, and all faces 140 
were intently watching him. He had taken into his 
hands a crystal vessel containing the consecrated Host, 
and was about to address the people. 

"You remember, my children, three days ago I be- 
sought you, when I should hold this Sacrament in my 145 
hand in the face of you all, to pray fervently to the 
Most High that if this work of mine does not come 
from Him, He will send a fire and consume me, that I 
may vanish into the eternal darkness away from His 
light which I have hidden with my falsity. Again I 150 
beseech you to make that prayer, and to make it nowy 

It was a breathless moment; perhaps no man really 
prayed, if some in a spirit of devout obedience made 



ELIOT 585 

the effort to pray. Every consciousness was chiefly pos- 
sessed by the sense that Savonarola was praying, in a 155 
voice not loud, but distinctly audible in the wide still- 
ness. 

"Lord, if I have not wrought in sincerity of soul, if 
my word cometh not from Thee, strike me in this mo- 
ment with Thy thunder, and let the fires of Thy wrath 160 
enclose me." 

He ceased to speak, and stood motionless with the 
consecrated Mystery in his hand, with eyes uplifted, and 
a quivering excitement in his whole aspect. Every one 
else was motionless and silent too, while the sunlight, 165 
which for the last quarter of an hour had here and there 
been piercing the grayness, made fitful streaks across the 
convent wall, causing some awe-stricken spectators to 
start timidly. But soon there was a wider parting, and 
with a gentle quickness, like a smile, a stream of bright- 170 
ness poured itself on the crystal vase, and then spread 
itself over Savonarola's face with mild glorification. 

An instantaneous shout rang through the Piazza, "Be- 
hold the answer ! " 

The warm radiance thrilled through Savonarola's frame, 175 
and so did the shout. It was his last moment of un- 
troubled triumph, and in its rapturous confidence he 
felt carried to a grander scene yet to come, before 
an audience that would represent all Christendom, in 
whose presence he should again be sealed as the mes- 180 
senger of the supreme righteousness, and feel himself 
full charged with Divine strength. It was but a moment 
that expanded itself in that prevision. While the shout 
was still ringing in his ears, he turned away within the 
church, feeling the strain too great for him to bear it 185 
longer. 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

(1819-1861) 

THE STREAM OF LIFE 

O STREAM descending to the sea, 

Thy mossy banks between, 
The flowerets blow, the grasses grow, 

The leafy trees are green. 

In garden plots the children play, 5 

The fields the labourers till. 
And houses stand on either hand. 

And thou descendest still. 

O life descending into death. 

Our waking eyes behold, 10 

Parent and friend thy lapse attend. 

Companions young and old. 

Strong purposes our mind possess, 

Our hearts affections fill. 
We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 15 

And thou descendest still. 

O end to which our currents tend, 

Inevitable sea. 
To which we flow, what do we know. 

What shall we guess of thee ? 2c 

586 



CLOUGH 587 



A roar we hear upon thy shore, 
As we our course fulfil; 

Scarce we divine a sun will shine 
And be above us still. 



THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 

The Highland Streaui 

There is a stream (I name not its name, lest inquisitive 

tourist 
Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at last into guide- 
books), 
Springing far off from a loch unexplored in the folds of 

great mountains, 
Falling two miles through rowan and stunted alder, 

enveloped 
Then for four more in a forest of pine, where broad and 5 

ample 
Spreads, to convey it, the glen with heathery slopes on 

both sides : 
Broad and fair the stream, with occasional falls and 

narrows; 
But, where the glen of its course approaches the vale of 

the river. 
Met and blocked by a huge interposing mass of granite. 
Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up, and raging 10 

onward. 
Forces its flood through a passage so narrow a lady would 

step it. 
There, across the great rocky wharves, a wooden bridge 

goes, 



r ^% 



588 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Carrying a path to the forest; below, three hundred 
yards, say. 

Lower in level some twenty-five feet, through flats of 
shingle, 

Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in the open val- 15 
ley. 
But in the interval here the boiling pent-up water 

Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a basin. 

Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and 
fury 

Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror; 

Beautiful there for the colour derived from green rocks 20 
under; 

Beautiful, most of all, where beads of foam uprising 

Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the 
stillness, 

Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch 
boughs. 

Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and path- 
way. 

Still more enclosed from below by wood and rocky pro- 25 
jection. 

You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection 
of water, 

Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the god- 
dess of bathing. 
Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride the fall and 
clear it; 

Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in beaded spark- 
lings. 

Here into pure green depth drop down from lofty ledges. 30 



CLOUGH 589 

WHERE LIES THE LAND? 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 5 

Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; 
Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 10 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 15 

Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 



SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 

Say not, the struggle nought availeth. 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 

And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. 

And, but for you, possess the field. 



590 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 

Seem here no painful inch to gain, lo 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Come silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only. 

When daylight comes, comes in the light, 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 15 

But westward, look, the land is bright. 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 

With canvas drooping, side by side. 
Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 5 

And all the darkling hours they plied. 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so — but why the tale reveal 

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, 10 

Brief absence joined anew to feel, 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 

At dead of night their sails were filled. 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 15 

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 



C LOUGH 



591 



To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too. 

Through winds and tides one compass guides — 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 20 

But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas. 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 25 

One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
At last, at last, unite them there ! 



'WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, NEITHER 
SHADOW OF TURNING' 

It fortifies my soul to know 
That, though I perish. Truth is so : 
That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
Whate'er I do. Thou dost not change. 
I steadier step when I recall 
That, if I slip. Thou dost not fall. 



'O @eo? yLtem <tov ! * 

Farewell, my Highland lassie ! when the year returns 

around. 
Be it Greece, or be it Norway, where my vagrant feet 

are found, 

* God be with you. 



592 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

I shall call to mind the place, I shall call to mind the 

day, 
The day that's gone forever, and the glen that's far away; 
I shall mind me, be it Rhine or Rhone, Italian land or 5 

France, 
Of the laughings and the whispers, of the pipings and 

the dance; 
I shall see thy soft brown eyes dilate to wakening woman 

thought. 
And whiter still the white cheek grow to which the blush 

was brought; 
And oh, with mind commixing I thy breath of life shall 

feel, 
And clasp thy shyly passive hands in joyous Highland 10 

reel; 
I shall hear, and see, and feel, and in sequence sadly true. 
Shall repeat the bitter-sweet of the lingering last adieu; 
I shall seem as now to leave thee, with the kiss upon the 

brow. 
And the fervent benediction of — 'O ©eo? /xera (tov\ 

Ah me, my Highland lassie ! though in winter drear and 15 

long, 
Deep arose the heavy snows, and the stormy winds were 

strong. 
Though the rain, in summer's brightest, it were raining 

every day. 
With worldly comforts few and far, how glad were I to 

stay ! 
I fall to sleep with dreams of life in some black bothie 

spent. 
Coarse poortith's were thou changing there to gold of 20 

pure content. 



C LOUGH 



593 



With barefoot lads and lassies round, and thee the cheery 

wife, 
In the braes of old Lochaber a laborious homely life; 
But I wake, — to leave thee, smiling, with the kiss upon 

the brow, 
And the peaceful benediction of — 'O ©eos /xera <tov\ 



SONGS IN ABSENCE 

Green fields of England! wheresoe'er 
Across this watery waste we fare. 
Your image at our hearts we bear. 
Green fields of England, everywhere. 

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee 
Past where the waves' last confines be, 
Ere your loved smile I cease to see. 
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 

Dear home in England, safe and fast 
If but in thee my lot lie cast. 
The past shall seem a nothing past 
To thee, dear home, if won at last; 
Dear home in England, won at last. 



A RIVER POOL 

Sweet streamlet basin ! at thy side 
Weary and faint within me cried 
My longing heart. — In such pure deep 
How sweet it were to sit and sleep; 

2Q 



594 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

To feel each passage from without 5 

Close up, — above me and about, 

Those circling waters crystal clear, 

That calm impervious atmosphere ! 

There on thy pearly pavement pure, 

To lean, and feel myself secure, lo 

Or through the dim-lit interspace 

Afar at whiles upgazing trace 

The dimpling bubbles dance around 

Upon thy smooth exterior face; 

Or idly list the dreamy sound 15 

Of ripples lightly flung, above 

That home, of peace, if not of love. 



COME, POET, COME 

Come, Poet, come ! 
A thousand labourers ply their task. 
And what it tends to scarcely ask. 
And trembling thinkers on the brink 
Shiver, and know not how to think. 
To tell the purport of their pain, 
And what our silly joys contain; 
In lastirig lineaments portray 
The substance of the shadowy day; 
Our real and inner deeds rehearse. 
And make our meaning clear in verse; 
Come, Poet, come ! for but in vain 
We do the work or feel the pain. 
And gather up in seeming gain, 
Unless before the end thou come 
To take, ere they be lost, their sum. 



CLOUGH 595 

Come, Poet, come ! 
And give an utterance to the dumb, 
And make vain babbles silent, come; 
A thousand dupes point here and there, 20 

Bewildered by the show and glare; 
And wise men half have learned to doubt 
Whether we are not best without. 
Come, Poet; both but wait to see 
Their error proved to them in thee. 25 

Come, Poet, come ! 
In vain I seem to call. And yet 
Think not the living times forget. 
Ages of heroes fought and fell 
That Homer in the end might tell; 30 

O'er grovelling generations past 
Upstood the Doric fane at last; 
And countless hearts on countless years 
Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, 
Rude laughter and unmeaning tears, 35 

Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome 
The pure perfection of her dome. 
Others, I doubt not, if not we. 
The issue of our toils shall see; 
Young children gather as their own 40 

The harvest that the dead had sown. 
The dead forgotten and unknown. 



IN THE GREAT METROPOLIS 

Each for himself is still the rule; 
We learn it when we go to school — 
The devil take the hindmost, O ! 



596 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

And when the schoolboys grow to men^ 
In life they learn it o'er again — 5 

The devil take the hindmost, O ! 

For in the church, and at the bar, 
On 'Change, at court, where'er they are, 
The devil takes the hindmost, O! 

Husband for husband, wife for wife, 10 

Are careful that in married life 

The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 

From youth to age, whate'er the game, 
The unvarying practice is the same — 

The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 15 

And after death, we do not know, 
But scarce can doubt where'er we go 
The devil takes the hindmost, O ! 

Ti rol de rol, ti rol de ro. 

The devil take the hindmost, O ! 20 



JOHN RUSKIN 

(1819- ) 

PRAETERITA 
The Consecration 

Difficult enough for you to imagine, that old travel- 
lers' time, when Switzerland was yet the land of the 
Swiss, and the Alps had never been trod by foot of man. 
Steam, never heard of yet, but for short, fair-weather 
crossing at sea (were there paddle-packets across Atlan- 5 
tic? I forget). Anyway, the roads by land were safe; 
and entered once into this mountain Paradise, we wound 
on through its balmy glens, past cottage after cottage on 
their lawns, still glistening in the dew. 

The road got into more barren heights by the mid- 10 
day, the hills arduous; once or twice we had to wait for 
horses, and we were still twenty miles from Schaffhausen 
at sunset; it was past midnight when we reached her 
closed gates. The disturbed porter had the grace to 
open them — not quite wide enough; we carried away 15 
one of the lamps in collision with the slanting bar as 
we drove through the arch. How much happier the 
privilege of dreamily entering a mediaeval city, though 
vv'ith the loss of a lamp, than the free ingress of being 
jammed between a dray and a tram-car at a railroad 20 
station ! 

It is strange that I but dimly recollect the following 

597 



598 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

morning; I fancy we must have gone to some sort of 
church or other; and certainly, part of the day went in 
admiring the bow-windows projecting into the clean 25 
streets. None of us seemed to have thought the Alps 
would be visible without profane exertion in climbing 
hills. We dined at four, as usual, and the evening 
being entirely fine, went to walk, all of us, — my father 
and mother and Mary and I. 30 

We must have still spent some time m town — seeing, 
for it was drawing toward sunset when we got up to 
some sort of garden promenade — west of the town, I 
believe; and high above the Rhine, so as to command 
the open country across it to south and west. At which 35 
open country of low undulation, far into blue, — gazing 
as at one of our own distances from Malvern of Worces- 
tershire, or Dorking of Kent, — suddenly — behold — be- 
yond. 

There was no thought in any of us for a moment of 40 
their being clouds. They were as clear as crystal, sharp 
on the pure horizon sky, and already tinged with rose by 
the sinking sun. Infinitely beyond all that we had ever 
thought or dreamed, — ^the seen walls of lost Eden could 
not have been more beautiful to us; not more awful, 45 
round heaven, the walls of sacred Death. 

It is not possible to imagine, in any time of the 
world, a more blessed entrance into life, for a child of 
such a temperament as mine. True, the temperament 
belonged to the age: a very few years, — within the 50 
hundred, — before that, no child could have been born 
to care for the mountains, or for the men that lived 
among them, in that way. Till Rousseau's time, there 
had been no "sentimental" love of nature; and till 
Scott's, no such apprehensive love of "all sorts and con- 55 



RUSK IN 



599 



ditions of men," not in the soul merely, but in the flesh. 
St. Bernard of La Fontaine, looking out to Mont Blanc, 
with his child's eyes, sees above Mont Blanc the Ma- 
donna; St. Bernard of Talloires, not the Lake of An- 
necy but the dead between Martigny and Aosta. But 60 
for me, the Alps and their people were alike beautiful 
in their snow, and their humanity; and I wanted, 
neither for them nor myself, sight of any throne in 
heaven but the rocks, or of any spirits in heaven but the 
clouds. 65 

Thus, in perfect health of life and fire of heart, not 
wanting to be anything but the boy I was, not wanting 
to have anything more than I had; knowing of sorrow 
only just so much as to make life serious to me, not 
enough to slacken in the least its sinews; and with so 70 
much of science mixed with feeling as to make the sight 
of the Alps not only the revelation of the beauty of the 
earth, but the opening of the first page of its volume, 
— I went down that evening from the garden-terrace of 
Schaffhausen with my destiny fixed in all of it that was 75 
to be sacred and useful. To that terrace, and the shore 
of the Lake of Geneva, my heart and faith return to this 
day, in every impulse that is yet nobly alive in them, 
and every thought that has in it help or peace. 



MODERN PAINTERS 

Real Happiness 

The great mechanical impulses of the age, of which 
most of us are so proud, are a mere passing fever, half 
speculative, half childish. People will discover at last 



600 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

that royal roads to anything can no more be laid in iron 
than they can in dust; that there are, in fact, no royal 5 
roads to anywhere worth going to; that if there were, it 
would that instant cease to be worth going to, I mean so 
far as the things to be obtained are in any way estimable 
in terms oi price. For there are two classes of precious 
things in the world : those that God gives us for nothing 10 
— sun, air, and life (both mortal life and immortal); 
and the secondarily precious things which He gives us 
for a price : these secondarily precious things, worldly 
wine and milk, can only be bought for definite money; 
they never can be cheapened. No cheating nor bargain- 15 
ing will ever get a single thing out of nature's " establish- 
ment" at half-price. Do we want to be strong? — Ave 
must work. To be hungry? — ^ we must starve. To be 
happy? — we must be kind. To be wise? — we must 
look and think. No changing of place at a hundred 20 
miles an hour, nor making of stuffs a thousand yards a 
minute will make us one whit stronger, happier, or 
wiser. There was always more in the world than men 
could see, walked they ever so solwly; they will see it 
no better for going fast. And they will at last, and 25 
soon, too, find out that their grand inventions for con- 
quering (as they think) space and time do in reality 
conquer nothing; for space and time are, in their own 
essence, unconquerable, and besides did not want any 
sort of conquering; they wanted using. A fool always 30 
wants to shorten space and time : a wise man wants to 
lengthen both. A fool wants to kill space and kill time : 
a wise man, first to gain them, then to animate them. 
Your railroad, when you come to understand it, is 
only a device for making the world smaller : and as for 35 
being able to talk from place to place, that is, indeed. 



RUSK IN 60 1 

well and convenient; but suppose you have, originally, 
nothing to say. We shall be obliged at last to confess, 
what we should long ago have known, that the really 
precious things are thought and sight, not pace. It 40 
does a bullet no good to go fast; and a man, if he be 
truly a man, no harm to go slow; for his glory is not at 
all in going, but in being. . . . 

And I am Utopian and enthusiastic enough to believe, 
that the time will come when the world will discover 45 
this. It has now made its experiments in every possible 
direction but the right one; and it seems that it must, 
at last, try the right one, in a mathematical necessity. 
It has tried fighting, and preaching, and fasting, buying 
and selling, pomp and parsimony, pride and humilia- 50 
tion, — ■ every possible manner of existence in which it 
could conjecture there was any happiness or dignity; 
and all the while, as it bought, sold, and fought, and 
fasted, and wearied itself with policies, and ambitions, 
and self-denials, God has placed its real happiness in 55 
the keeping of the little mosses of the wayside, and of 
the clouds of the firmament. Now and then a weary 
king, or a tormented slave, found out where the true 
kingdoms of the world were, and possessed himself, in 
a furrow or two of garden ground, of a truly infinite 60 
dominion. But the world would not believe their re- 
port, and went on trampling down the mosses, and for- 
getting the clouds, and seeking happiness in its own 
way, until, at last, blundering and late, came natural 
science; and in natural science not only the observation 65 
of things, but the finding out of new uses for them. Of 
course the world, having a choice left to it, went wrong, 
as usual, and thought that these mere material uses were 
to be the sources of its happiness. It got the clouds 



602 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

packed into iron cylinders, and made it carry its wise 70 
self at their own cloud pace. It got weavable fibres out 
of the mosses, and made clothes for itself, cheap and 
fine, — here was happiness at last. To go as fast as the 
clouds, and manufacture everything out of anything, — 
here was paradise, indeed. 75 

And now, when, in a little while, it is unparadised 
again, if there were any other mistake that the world 
could make, it would of course make it. But I see not 
that there is any other; and, standing fairly at its wits' 
ends, having found that going fast, when it is used to 80 
it, is no more paradisaical than going slow; and that all 
the prints and cottons in Manchester cannot make it 
comfortable in its mind, I do verily believe it will 
come, finally, to understand that God paints the clouds 
and shapes the moss-fibres, that men may be happy in 85 
seeing Him at His work, and that in resting quietly 
beside Him, and watching His working, and — accord- 
ing to the power He has communicated to ourselves, 
and the guidance He grants, — in carrying out His pur- 
poses of peace and charity among all His creatures, are 90 
the only real happiness that ever were, or ever will be, 
possible to mankind. 



LECTURES ON ART 
The Function of Art 

Let me now finally, and with all distinctness possible 
to me, state to you the main business of all Art; — its 
service in the actual uses of daily life. 

You are surprised, perhaps, to hear me call this its 
main business. That is indeed so, however. The giv- 5 



R us KIN 



603 



ing brightness to picture is much, but the giving bright- 
ness to life more. And remember, were it as patterns 
only, you cannot, without the realities, have the pict- 
ures. You cannot have a landscape by Turner, without 
a country for him to paint; you cannot have a portrait 10 
by Titian, without a man to be pourtrayed, I need not 
prove that to you, I suppose, in these short terms; but 
in the outcome I can get no soul to believe that the 
beginning of art is in getting our country clean and our 
people beautiful. I have been ten years trying to get 15 
this very plain certainty — I do not say believed — but 
even thought of, as anything but a monstrous proposi- 
tion. To get your country clean, and your people lovely; 

— I assure you that is a necessary work of art to begin 
with ! There has indeed been art in countries where 20 
people lived in dirt to serve God, but never in countries 
where they lived in dirt to serve the devil. There has 
indeed been art where the people were not at all lovely, 

— where even their lips were thick — and their skins 
black, because the sun had looked upon them; but never 25 
in a country where the people were pale with miserable 
toil and deadly shade, and where the lips of youth, in-- 
stead of being full with blood, were pinched by famine, 

or warped with poison. And now, therefore, note this 
well, the gist of all these long prefatory talks. I said 30 
that the two great moral instincts were those of Order 
and Kindness. Now, all the arts are founded on agri- 
culture by the hand, and on the graces, and kindness of 
feeding, and dressing, and lodging your people. Greek 
ar begins in the gardens of Alcinous — perfect order, 35 
leeks in beds, and fountains in pipes. And Christian 
art, as it arose out of chivalry, was only possible so far 
as chivalry compelled both kings and knights to care for 



604 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

the right personal training of their people; it perished 
utterly when those kings and knights became h]ixo^opoi^ 40 
devourers of the people. And it will become possible 
again only, when, literally, the sword is beaten into the 
ploughshare, when your St. George of England shall jus- 
tify his name, and Christian art shall be known, as its 
Master was, in breaking of bread. ... 45 

Now, I have given you my message, containing, as I 
know, offence enough, and itself, it may seem to many, 
unnecessary enough. But just in proportion to its ap- 
parent non-necessity, and to its certain offence, was its 
real need, and my real duty to speak it. . . . And there- 50 
fore these are the things that I have first and last to tell 
you in this place : — that the fine arts are not to be learned 
by Locomotion, but by making the homes we live in 
lovely and by staying in them; — that the fine arts are 
not to be learned by Competition, but by doing our quiet 55 
best in our own way; — that the fine arts are not to be 
learned by Exhibition, but by doing what is right and 
making what is honest, whether it be exhibited or not; 
— and, for the sum of all, that men must paint and build 
neither for pride nor for money, but for love; for love of 60 
their art, for love of their neighbour, and whatever better 
love may be than these, founded on these. . . . Begin 
with wooden floors; the tessellated ones will take care 
of themselves; begin with thatching roofs, and you shall 
end by splendidly vaulting them; begin by taking care 65 
that no old eyes fail over their Bibles, nor young ones 
over their needles, for want of rushlight, and then you 
may have whatever true good is to be got out of col- 
oured glass or wax candles. And in thus putting the 
arts to universal use, you will find also their universal 70 
inspiration, their universal benediction. 



RUSK IN 605 

STONES OF VENICE 

Knowledge and Wisdom 

Yet, observe, I do not mean to speak of the body and 
soul as separable. The man is made up of both : they 
are to be raised and glorified together, and all art is an 
expression of one, by and through the other. All that 
I would insist upon, is, the necessity of the whole man 5 
being in his work; the body must ho. in it. Hands and 
habits must be in it, whether we will or not; but the 
nobler part of the man may often not be in it. And 
that nobler part acts principally in love, reverence, and 
admiration, together with those conditions of thought 10 
which arise out of them. For we usually fall into much 
error by considering the intellectual powers as having 
dignity in themselves, and separable from the heart; 
whereas the truth is, that the intellect becomes noble 
and ignoble according to the food we give it, and the 15 
kind of subjects with which it is conversant. It is not 
the reasoning power which, of itself, is noble, but the 
reasoning power occupied with its proper objects. Half 
of the mistakes of metaphysicians have arisen from their 
not observing this; namely, that the intellect, going 20 
through the same process, is yet mean or noble accord- 
ing to the matter it deals with, and wastes itself away in 
mere rotary motion, if it be set to grind straws and dust. 
If we reason only respecting words, or lines, or any tri- 
fling and finite things, the reason becomes a contempt- 25 
ible faculty; but reason employed on holy and infinite 
things, becomes herself holy and infinite. ... For it 
must be felt at once that the increase of knowledge, 
merely as such, does not make the soul larger or smaller; 



6o6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

that, in the sight of God, all the knowledge man can 30 
gain is as nothing, but that the soul, ... be it igno- 
rant or be it wise, is all in all, and in the activity, 
strength, health, and well-being of this soul, lies the 
main difference, in His sight, between one man and an- 
other. And that which is all in all in God's estimate is 35 
also, be assured, all in all in man's labour, and to have 
the heart open, and the eyes clear, and the emotions 
and thoughts warm and quick, and not the knowing of 
this or the other fact, is the state needed for all mighty 
doing in this world. And therefore, finally, for this the 40 
weightiest of all reasons, let us take no pride in our 
knowledge. We may, in a certain sense, be proud of 
being immortal; we may be proud of being God's chil- 
dren; we may be proud of loving, thinking, seeing, and 
of all that we are by no human teaching: but not of 45 
what we have been taught by rote; not of the ballast 
and freight of the ship of the spirit, but only of its 
pilotage, without which all the freight will only sink it 
faster, and strew the sea more richly with its ruin. 
There is not at this moment a youth of twenty, having 50 
received what we moderns ridiculously call education, 
but he knows more of everything, except the soul, than 
Plato or St. Paul did; but he is not for that reason a 
greater man, or fitter for his work, or more fit to be 
heard by others, than Plato or St. Paul. 55 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 

(1822-1888) 

EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 

Callicles' Sons 



'<b 



Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts 
Thick breaks the red flame; 
iVll Etna heaves fiercely 
Her forest-clothed frame. 

Not here, O Apollo ! 5 

Are haunts meet for thee. 

But, where Helicon breaks down 

In cliff to the sea, 

Where the moon-silver' d inlets 

Send far their light voice 10 

Up the still vale of Thisbe, 

O speed, and rejoice! 

On the sward at the cliff-top 

Lie strewn the white flocks, 

On the cliff-side the pigeons 15 

Roost deep in the rocks. 

In the moonlight the shepherds, 
Soft lull'd by the rills, 
Lie wrapt in their blankets 

Asleep on the hills. 20 

607 



6o8 FROAI CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

— What forms are these coming 
So white through the gloom? 
What garments ont-glistening 
The gold-flower 'd broom? 

What sweet-breathing presence 25 

Out-perfumes the thyme? 

What voices enrapture 

The night's balmy prime? — 

'Tis Apollo comes leading 

His choir, the Nine. 30 

— The leader is fairest, 
But all are divine. 

They are lost in the hollows! 

They stream up again ! 

What seeks on this mountain 35 

The glorified train? — 

They bathe on this mountain, 

In the spring by their road; 

Then on to Olympus, 

Their endless abode. 40 

— Whose praise do they mention? 
Of what is it told? — 

What will be for ever; 
What was from of old. 

First hymn they the Father 45 

Of all things; and then. 
The rest of immortals. 
The action of men. 



ARNOLD 609 

The day in his hotness, 

The strife with the pahii; 50 

The night in her silence, 

The stars in their cahn. 



DOVER BEACH 

The sea is cahii to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light 

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 5 

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch 'd land. 

Listen ! you hear the grating roar 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 10 

At their return, up the high strand. 

Begin, and cease, and then again begin. 

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 

The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 15 

Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought 

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 

Of human misery; we 

Find also in the sound a thought, 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20 

The Sea of Faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd! 

But now I only hear 

2R 



6lO FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 25 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 

And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another ! for the world, which seems 10 

To lie before us like a land of dreams. 

So various, so beautiful, so new. 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light. 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 35 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight. 

Where ignorant armies clash by night. 



MEMORIAL VERSES 

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
But one such death remain' d to come; 
The last poetic voice is dumb — 
We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. 

When Byron's eyes were shut in death. 
We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
He taught us little; but our soul 
Had /^// him like the thunder's roll. 
With shivering heart the strife we saw 
Of passion with eternal law; 
And yet with reverential awe 
We watch'd the fount of fiery life 
Which served for that Titanic strife. 



ARNOLD 6ll 

When Goethe's death was told, we said: 15 

Sunk, then, is Europe's sag'est head. 

Physician of the iron age, 

Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 

He took the suffering human race, 

He read each wound, each weakness clear; 20 

And struck his finger on the place, 

And said : Thoit ailest here and here I 

He look'd on Europe's dying hour 

Of fitful dream and feverish power; 

His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 25 

The turmoil of expiring life — 

He said : The end is evejywhe?'e, 

Art still has truth, take refuge there ! 

And he was happy, if to know 

Causes of things, and far below 30 

His feet to see the lurid flow 

Of terror, and insane distress, 

And headlong fate, be happiness. 

And Wordsworth! — Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice! 

For never has such soothing voice 35 

Been to your shadowy world convey' d, 

Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 

Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 

Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 

Wordsworth has gone from us — and ye, 40 

Ah, may ye feel his voice as we ! 

He too upon a wintry clime 

Had fallen — on this iron time 

Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 

He found us when the age had bound 45 

Our souls in its benumbing round; 



6l2 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 

He laid us as we lay at birth 

On the cool flowery lap of earth, 

Smiles broke from us and we had ease; 50 

The hills were round us, and the breeze 

Went o'er the sun-lit fields again; 

Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 

Our youth return' d; for there was shed 

On spirits that had long been dead, 55 

Spirits dried up and closely furl'd. 

The freshness of the early world. 

Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 

Man's prudence and man's fiery might, 

Time may restore us in his course 60 

Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force; 

But where will Europe's latter hour 

Again find Wordsworth's healing power? 

Others will teach us how to dare 

And against fear our breast to steel; 65 

Others will strengthen us to bear — 

But who, ah! who, will make us feel? 

The cloud of mortal destiny, 

Others will front it fearlessly — 

But who, like him, will put it by? 70 

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 



ARNOLD 613 

RUGBY CHAPEL 

Servants of God 

Then, in such hour of need 

Of your fainting, dispirited race, 

Ye, like angels, appear. 

Radiant with ardour divine ! 

Beacons of hope, ye appear ! 5 

Languor is not in your heart. 

Weakness is not in your word, 

Weariness not on your brow. 

Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, 

Panic, despair, flee away. 10 

Ye move through the ranks, recall 

The stragglers, refresh the outworn. 

Praise, re-inspire the brave ! 

Order, courage, return. 

Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 15 

Follow your steps as ye go. 

Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 

Strengthen the wavering line, 

Stablish, continue our march. 

On, to the bound of the waste, 20 

On, to the City of God. 



SHAKESPEARE 

Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
We ask and ask — • Thou smilest and art still. 
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill. 
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty. 



6 14 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, 
Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
To the foil'd searching of mortality; 

And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, 
Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure 
Didst tread on earth unojuess'd at. — Better so! 



All pains the immortal spirit must endure. 

All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, 

Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. 



WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS 

*0 MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world, 
That thou canst hear and hearing hold thy way! 
A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day, 
To-day a hero's banner is unfurl' d; 

'Hast thou no lip for welcome? ' — So I said. 
Man after man, the world smiled and pass'd by; 
A smile of wistful incredulity 
As though we spoke of life unto the dead — 

Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full 
Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free; 
Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful; 

The seeds of godlike power are in us still; 
Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will ! — 
Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery? 



ARNOLD 615 

EAST LONDON 

'TwAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 
In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 

I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 5 

'111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene?"* — 
'Bravely! ' said he; 'for I of late have been 
Much cheer 'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread. ' 

O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 

Set up a mark of everlasting light, 10 

Above the howling sense's ebb and flow. 

To cheer thee, and so right thee if thou roam — 
Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! 
Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. 



CALAIS SANDS 

A THOUSAND knights have reined their steeds 
To watch this line of sand-hills run, 
Along the never silent strait. 
To Calais glittering in the sun. 

To look toward Ardres' Golden Field, 
Across this wide aerial plain. 
Which glows as if the Middle Age 
Were gorgeous upon earth again. 



6l6 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

Oh, that to share this famous scene, 

I saw, upon the open sand, lo 

Thy lovely presence at my side, 

Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand ! 

How exquisite thy voice would come, 

My darling, on this lonely air! 

How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze 15 

Shake loose some band of soft brown hair ! 

Yet now my glance but once hath roved 

O'er Calais and its famous plain; 

To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd. 

O'er the blue strait mine eyes I strain. 20 

Thoucomest! Yes! the vessel's cloud 
Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. 
Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine, 
To win one instant's glimpse of thee ! 

I must not spring to grasp thy hand, 25 

To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye; 
But I may stand far off, and gaze. 
And watch thee pass unconscious by. 

And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, 
Mixtwith the idlers on the pier — 30 

Ah, might I always rest unseen. 
So I might have thee always near ! 

To-morrow hurry through the fields 

Of Flanders to the storied Rome ! 

To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close 35 

Beneath one roof, my queen ! with mine. 



ARNOLD 6 1 7 

THE STUDY OF POETRY 

Poetry a Criticism of Life 

We should conceive of poetry worthily, and more 
highly than it has been the custom to conceive of it. 
We should conceive of it as capable of higher uses, and 
called to higher destinies, than those which in general 
men have assigned to it hitherto. More and more man- 5 
kind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to 
interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. With- 
out poetry, our science will appear incomplete; and 
most of what now passes with us for religion and phi- 
losophy will be replaced by poetry. Science, I say, will 10 
appear incomplete without it. For finely and truly does 
Wordsworth call poetry 'the impassioned expression 
which is in the countenance of all science ' ; and what 
is a countenance without its expression? Again, Words- 
worth finely and truly calls poetry 'the breath and finer 15 
spirit of all knowledge ' : our religion, parading evi- 
dences such as those on which the popular mind relies 
now; our philosophy, pluming itself on its reasonings 
about causation and finite and infinite being; what are 
they but the shadows and dreams and false shows of 20 
knowledge ? The day will come when we shall wonder 
at ourselves for having trusted to them, for having taken 
them seriously; and the more we perceive their hollow- 
ness, the more we shall prize 'the breath and finer spirit 
of knowledge ' offered to us by poetry. 25 

But if we conceive thus highly of the destinies of 
poetry, we must also set our standard for poetry high, 
since poetry, to be capable of fulfilling such high desti- 
nies, must be poetry of a high order of excellence. We 



6l8 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

must accustom ourselves to a high standard and to a 30 
strict judgment. Sainte-Beuve relates that Napoleon 
one day said, when somebody was spoken of in his 
presence as a charlatan: 'Charlatan as much as you 
please; but where is there not charlatanism?' 'Yes,' 
answers Sainte-Beuve, 'in politics, in the art of govern- 35 
ing mankind, that is perhaps true. But in the order of 
thought, in art, the glory, the eternal honour is that 
charlatanism shall find no entrance; herein lies the in- 
violableness of that noble portion of man's being.' It 
is admirably said, and let us hold fast to it. In poetry, 40 
which is thought and art in one, it is the glory, the eter- 
nal honour, that charlatanism shall find no entrance; that 
this noble sphere be kept inviolate and inviolable. Char- 
latanism is for confusing or obliterating the distinctions 
between excellent and inferior, sound and unsound or 45 
only half-sound, true and untrue or only half-true. It 
is charlatanism, conscious or unconscious, whenever we 
confuse or obliterate these. And in poetry, more than 
anywhere else, it is unpermissible to confuse or obliter- 
ate them. For in poetry the distinction between excel- 50 
lent and inferior, sound and unsound or only half -sound, 
true and untrue or only half-true, is of paramount im- 
portance. It is of paramount importance because of the 
high destinies of poetry. In poetry, as a criticism of 
life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by 55 
the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty, the spirit of 
our race will find, we have said, as time goes on and as 
other helps fail, its consolation and stay. But the con- 
solation and stay will be of powder in proportion to the 
power of the criticism of life. And the criticism of life 60 
will be of power in proportion as the poetry conveying 
it is excellent rather than inferior, sound rather than 



ARNOLD 619 

unsound or half-sound, true rather than untrue or half- 
true. 

The best poetry is what we want; the best poetry will 65 
be found to have a power of forming, sustaining, and 
delighting us, as nothing else can. A clearer, deeper 
sense of the best in poetry, and of the strength and joy 
to be drawn from it, is the most precious benefit which 
we can gather from a poetical collection such as the 70 
present. And yet in the very nature and conduct of 
such a collection there is inevitably something which 
tends to obscure in us the consciousness of what our 
benefit should be, and to distract us from the pursuit of 
it. We should therefore steadily set it before our minds 75 
at the outset, and should compel ourselves to revert con- 
stantly to the thought of it as we proceed. 

Yes; constantly, in reading poetry, a sense for the 
best, the really excellent, and of the strength and joy 
to be drawn from it, should be present in our minds and So 
should govern our estimate of what we read. But this 
real estimate, the only true one, is liable to be super- 
seded, if we are not watchful, by two other kinds of esti- 
mate, the historic estimate and the personal estimate, 
both of which are fallacious. A poet or a poem may 85 
count to us historically, they may count to us on grounds 
personal to ourselves, and they may count to us really. 
They may count to us historically. The course of devel- 
opment of a nation's language, thought, and poetry, is 
profoundly interesting; and by regarding a poet's work 90 
as a stage in this course of development we may easily 
bring ourselves to make it of more importance as poetry 
than in itself it really is, we may come to use a language 
of quite exaggerated praise in criticising it; in short, to 
over-rate it. So arises in our poetic judgments the fal- 95 



620 FROM CHAUCER TO ARNOLD 

lacy caused by the estimate which we may call historic. 
Then, again, a poet or a poem may count to us on 
grounds personal to ourselves. Our personal affinities, 
likings, and circumstances, have great power to sway our 
estimate of this or that poet's work, and to make us at- loo 
tach more importance to it as poetry than in itself it 
really possesses, because to us it is, or has been, of high 
importance. Here also we over-rate the object of our in- 
terest, and apply to it a language of praise which is quite 
exaggerated. And thus we get the source of a second 105 
fallacy in our poetic judgments, — the fallacy caused by 
an estimate which we may call personal. 

At any rate the end to which the method and the 
estimate are designed to lead, and from leading to 
which, if they do lead to it, they get their whole value, no 
— the benefit of being able clearly to feel and deeply to 
enjoy the best, the truly classic, in poetry, — is an end, 
let me say it once more at parting, of supreme impor- 
tance. We are often told that an era is opening in 
which we are to see multitudes of a common sort of 115 
readers, and masses of a common sort of literature; that 
such readers do not want and could not relish anything 
better than such literature, and that to provide it is 
becoming a vast and profitable industry. Even if good 
literature entirely lost currency with the world, it would 120 
still be abundantly worth while to continue to enjoy it 
by oneself. But it never will lose currency with the 
world, in spite of momentary appearances; it never will 
lose supremacy. Currency and supremacy are insured 
to it, not indeed by the world's deliberate and conscious 125 
choice, but by something far deeper, — by the instinct of 
self-preservation in humanity. 



NOTES 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

The England before Chaucer was a complex of elements, — Celtic, 
Roman, vSaxon, and Norman, — which, under the influences within 
and without, gradually became united, until there developed a dis- 
tinct national polity and national religion. The former was evolved 
from within ; the latter came from without. The song of war and con- 
quest, full of the strain of the sea, which the Saxons brought with them 
from the Continent, under the milder influences of Christianity at 
Whitby became a song of religious struggle and devotion with Caedman 
and Cynewulf. When by the inroads of the Danes literature was 
driven from Northumbria it found a home at Winchester, the court of 
Alfred, and English prose was born in the Saxoji Chronicle. Like the 
verse of the North, this was English in language, and religious in sen- 
timent, and we now have a national literature. When that mighty 
wave of Norman influence crossed the channel and reached the shores 
of England, the Church, the State, and Literature became transformed, 
at least in their external nature. The Norman bishop supplanted the 
Saxon bishop, the baron supplanted the earl, the minstrel, the gleeman, 
and end-rhyme, alliteration. To all appearances the revolution was 
complete, but deep down in the life and thought of the subjugated 
English, seeds were growing which would, in time, break the bands of 
external formality, and, in the milder atmosphere of Norman culture 
and romance cycles, develop into the graceful and sinewy new tongue. 
Its growth is marked by the work of Layamon, the story tellers, song 
and ballad, Wicliff, Langland, and Gower, until it reaches a stage ready 
for the fashioning of the master, and in Chaucer the Forinative Period 
attains its culmination, 

" Chaucer sang matins, sweet his note and strong, 
His singing-robe the green, white garb of Spring." 
621 



622 NOTES: CHAUCER 

In this fresh, clear, strong singer, we have the union of the best in 
sentiment and form of the ages which preceded, and the Canterbury 
Tales is its finest expression. He thus modestly describes himself as 
a gleaner in the fields where others have gathered a harvest: — 

" And I come after, gleaning here and there, 
And am full glad if I can find an ear 
Of any goodly word that ye have left." 

He anticipated Shakespeare in the art of holding the mirror up to 
nature, " to show virtue her own features, scorn her own image, and the 
very age and body of the time his form and pressure." 

"Chaucer is the father of our splendid English poetry; he is our 
'well of English undefiled,' because by the lovely charm of his diction, 
the lovely charm of his movement, he makes an epoch, and founds a 
tradition. He is a genuine source of joy and strength which is flowing 
still for us, and will flow always." — Matthew Arnold. 

" Chaucer seems to me to have been one of the most purely original 
of poets, as much so in respect to the world that is about us, as Dante 
in respect to that which is within us. There had been nothing like him 
before, there has been nothing like him since." — J. R. Lowell. 

7. yonge sonne. The sun is young because it first entered on its 
course through the zodiac. 

8. the Ram. The sun runs one half course in the sign of the Ram 
in March, and the second in April, 

17. martir. Thomas a Becket. 

20. Tabard. So called from the sign — a tabard. It was an inn in 
Southwark by London. 

25. aventure i-falle. By chance having fallen. 

29. esed atte beste. Entertained in the best manner. 

51. Alisaundre. Alexandria. 

52. the bord bigonne. Taken the head of the table. 

53-58. Pruce, Prussia; Lettow, Lithuania; Ruce, Russia; Ger- 
nade, Grenada; Algezir, taken from the Moors in 1344; Belmarye, 
Palmyra; Lyeys, in Armenia; Satalye, Attalia. 

59. the Grete See. The Mediterranean. 

62. Tramyssene. Tremezen, in Africa. 

65. Palatye. A lordship in Anatolia. 

88. lady. This is a genitive. 



NOTES: CHAUCER 623 

115. Christophere. Figure worn as protection from evil, 

120. seint Loy. Saint Eligius who refused to take an oath. The 
allusion meaning that the Prioress never swore. 

125. scole. Anglo-Norman French, used in the convents. 

173. seint Maure. A disciple of Seint Beneil, or Benedict, estab- 
lished the Benedictine order in France. 

210. ordres foure. Dominicans, Carmelites, Franciscans, Augus- 
tinians. 

220. licenciat. Licensed to hear confession. 

254. In principio. He began his address with the first two words 
of St. John's Gospel. 

256. rente. Friars had no fixed property. 

277. Middelburgh. Opposite the Orwell on the Dutch coast. 

278. sheeldes. French crowns. 

310. Parvys. Porch of St. Paul's, where lawyers met for con 
sultation. 

319. fee symple. He could carry all before him. 

340. Seint Julian. P^amous for good entertainment. 

341. after oon. Of the best. 

400. By water. Drowned his prisoners. 

408. Gootlond. Jutland. 

416. in houres. Watched for the favorable star of astrology. 

429-434. Esculapius. This and the following are names of famous 
physicians. 

442. pestilence. Plagues were frequent in the fourteenth century. 

460. at chirche dore. Marriage service began at the entrance of 
the church. 

465,466. Boloigne, Boulogne; Galice, Galicia; Coloigne, Cologne, 
where were shrines. 

Biography and Criticism. — A. W. Ward, English Men of Letters ; 
M. Brown, Chancer^s England ; J. J. Jusserand, Literary History of 
the English People; English Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages; 
J. Saunders, The Canterbury Tales ; H. Corson, The Canterbury Tales ; 
VV. J. Courthope, History of English 'Poetry, Vol. I. ; J. R. Lowell, 
Prose, Vol. HL; W. Minto, Characteristics of English Poets; A. Q. 
Couch, Adventures in Criticisvi ; W. W. Skeat, Co7nplete Works of 
Chaucer ; T. R. Lounsbury, Studies in Chaucer ; W. Hazlitt, Lectures 
Oil the English Poets ; L. Hunt, Essays. 



624 NOTES: MALORY; LYLY 

SIR THOMAS MALORY 

MORTE D'ArTHUR 

In the early legendary history of Britain there rises the mighty figure 
of the national hero, King Arthur, a figure around which has been 
gathered more great imaginative literature than about any other in 
history. This literature, known as the Arthurian Legend, Celtic folk- 
lore tales, in origin and development is as intricate and shadowy as 
that of the Homeric poems. In the fifteenth century innumerable 
tales of this kind had become crystallized into three separate romances, 
which deal (i) with Merlin and the early history of Arthur; (2) with 
Launcelot, including the Quest of the Grail and death of Arthur; 
(3) with Tristram. Malory, "the servant of Jesu both day and 
night," combined these into a single story, or epic, translating many, 
if not all, from old Anglo-French MSS. His work is related to pre- 
vious prose much as Chaucer's is to previous verse, and may be said to 
mark the beginning of modern prose in England. His book was 
printed by Caxton at Westminster. Malory's style is exceedingly 
modern; it is pure, simple, direct, with a quaint charm and nobility 
closely related to that of Chaucer. Speaking of the century following 
Chaucer, in which there was a change from verse to prose. Professor 
Earle says : " The chief monument of this change is the work of Sir 
Thomas Malory, who brought the Arthurian cycle of legends out of the 
degenerate poetry in which they were then current, and gave them a 
new life in English prose. This is a monument of great importance, as 
it is the first start of that career in the field of entertaining literature 
wherein English prose would be eminently successful." 

Biography and Criticism. — E. Rhys, SliuUes in the Arthurian 
I^egend ; M. W. Maccallum, Tennyson''s Idyls and Arthurian Story ; 
C. Guest, Boys' King Arthur ; E. Gosse, Modern Uteralure ; Ten 
Brink, History of English Literature ; A. T, Martin, Selections from 
Malory s Iving Arthur (Introduction). 

JOHN LYLY 

In the last quarter of the sixteenth century there arose a grotesque, 
yet animating, fashion of speech which Professor Earle calls " a transient 
phase of madness," in the work of John Lyly. His E.uphues is in two 



NOTES: LYLY; SIDNEY 625 

parts: Eiiphues, the Aiiatomie of Wit, and Eiiphues and His Eng- 
land. In an age of frivolous tastes and serious instincts, Euphues, a 
young Athenian, goes to Naples and then to England to study men 
and governments. Having become well informed on every subject, he 
instructs upon friendship, marriage, travel, religion, etc. Euphues is 
addressed mainly to women. " For I am content," he says, " that your 
dogges lie in your laps, so ' Euphues ' may be in your hands." Lyly 
established drawing-room literature, full of extravagant gallantry, im- 
moderate metaphors, strange similes from the classics and natural 
history. It was a mirror of the life and talk of the court. Euphuism 
became fashionable. Lyly was petted and praised by the ladies, and 
became " king of the precieiix,^'' of affectations and prettinesses. Here 
is the germ of that English novel of society which we find in Richard- 
son. For a ridicule of this style read Shakespeare's Love's Labour- 
Lost, the character of Holofernes; and Scott's Monastery, Sir Piercie 
Shafton. 

Lyly wrote plays for Her Majesty's Company of Child Players, "Chil- 
dren of Paul's." These were acted in the Chapel Royal. It is certain 
that Lyly exerted no little influence on Shakespeare. The exquisite 
little lyrics to be found in his dramas are the forerunners of the songs 
which are the charm of Shakespeare's plays. 

" No Frenchman in any age was ever more light and gay than the 
'witty, comical, facetiously quick and unparalleled John Lyly,' Queen 
Elizabeth's favorite, and the inventor or perfecter of a fashionable style 
of sentimental speech among her courtiers." — William Minto. 

Biography and Criticisi\i. — F. W. Fairholt, Works, with Life; W. 
S. Rushton, Shakespeare's Euphuism ; G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Lit- 
erature ; J. J. Jusserand, 7'he iVovel in the Eune of Shakespeare ; W.J. 
Courthope, History of English Poetry, Vol. II.; E. Gosse, Modern 
Literature. 

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

Poetry in its loftier strains had hardly been heard since Chaucer, 
for nearly two hundred years ; it had fallen into discredit and con- 
tempt. 

Sidney's Apologie was written as a defence of the nobler ideas and 
u.s:;s of poetry, and was suggested probably by the attack upon poetry 
and plays in Stephen Gosson'r, School of Abuse, pul)li:Micd in 1579. It 



626 NOTES: SIDNEY 

sets before us the great principles which governed the creation of 
poetry from Plato to Spenser, principles which have been so splendidly 
set forth in our own time by Coleridge and Arnold. 

" A specimen of flexible, spirited, fluent prose without excessive orna- 
ment of style, or learned impedimenta.^^ — Jusserand. 

The Arcadia was written for his sister, the noble Countess of Pem- 
broke, the mother of William Herbert, the * W. H.' of Shakespeare's 
sonnets. " For severer eyes it is not," says he to his sister, " being but 
a trifle and triflingly handled." It is difficult to conceive that Sidney 
wrote the Apologie and the Arcadia at the same time, so marked is the 
diff"erence in style. Pie was the very pattern of right nobility, ' a pala- 
din of art,' and it is natural that with his high ideas of what court life 
should be, he should become the creator of court Romance, as Lyly 
had been of court dialect. It may be considered as the beginning of 
the English novel of Romance which we find in Defoe. Although he 
condemned Euphuism in the Apologie, yet here it is highly artificial. 
Jusserand says, " When the book was published after his death, people 
were enraptured with his ingeniously dressed phrases. Lyly might 
shake with envy without having the right to complain, for Sidney did 
not imitate him." The famous Du Bartas, whose works influenced 
Milton so much, named Sidney as one of the " three firm pillars of 
English speech." 

"The Arcadia supplanted Euphues in those circles in which it had 
been a fashionable book, and the new fascination outcharmed the 
old." — Prof. John Earle. 

The sonnet is one of the most interesting and artistic of the literary 
forms which came into England from Italy. The leaders of the Renais- 
sance, Wyatt and Surrey, " who had tasted the sweet and stately meas- 
ures and style of Italian poesy," introduced this short poem of fourteen 
lines given to the expression of a single idea. With Sidney, Spenser, 
and Shakespeare, it remained true to the Italian spirit, love; but with 
Milton and Wordsworth, it comprised the entire range of man's hopes, 
fears, and aspirations. Sidney's sonnets are an after tune to the 
Arcadia. The Stella of these poems is the daughter of the Earl of 
Essex. Sidney's chivalrous youth, his passionate love, and his tragic 
death have touched the imagination of English poets in a most mar- 
vellous manner. Lamb says that to read these sonnets, " We must be 



NOTES: SIDNEY; BALLADS 62/ 

Lovers — or, at least, the cooling touch of time, the circiiin praecordia 
frig-US, must not have so damped our faculties, as to take away our 
recollection that we were once so." 

Biography and Criticism. — Fox Bourne, Heroes of Nations (Sid- 
ney) ; J. A. Symonds, English Men of Letters ; J. J. Jusserand, The 
English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare; Literary History of the 
English People ; W. J. Courthope, History of English Poetry, Vol. II.; 
G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan England ; Lamb, Last Essays of Elia ; 
E. Gosse, Modern Literature. 

BALLADS 

With the coming of the Normans, the English gleeman was sup- 
planted in the high places by the Norman minstrel, but yet he sang 
on in the language of communal life, and when this language be- 
came national in Chaucer, his songs rose to the surface, and are now 
cherished as one of the lost arts. The balladists were the natural 
successors of Chaucer. The ballads of England and Scotland, — 
primitive folk-songs of 

" Some natural sorrow, loss or pain, 
That has been and may be again," — 

are placed here because it was about this time the printer caught them 
and gave them something of permanent form, although they were con- 
stantly subject to alteration until the eighteenth century. Their authors 
are unknown, and the situations and incidents are often the property 
of many peoples. They were composed in the North of England and 
South of Scotland at a time when the arts were ' by the people and for 
the people, a joy to the maker and the user.' They are born not of 
vainglory nor love of praise; they lie deep down amid the life of all 
time, and reveal the great truth of Abt Vogler as given by Browning : — 

" Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear; 

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and the woe; 
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; 

The rest may reason and welcome : ''tis we musicians know." 

Bishop Percy's chance discovery of an old tattered MS. of these 
ballads in the handwriting of the early seventeenth century and their 
publication in 1765 gave them a new lease of life, and restored the 



628 NOTES: BALLADS; SPENSER 

drooping spirits of English poesy. Scott's splendid collection, The 
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, in 1802, increased the interest in 
ballad literature, and established it as a great national inheritance. 

Historical, — Percy, Reliqiies of Ancient English Poetry; Herd, 
Ancient and Alodern Scottish Songs; Ritson, Ancient Popular Poetry ; 
Robin Hood ; Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border ; Child, English 
and Scottish Ballads ; Bates, A Ballad Book ; Gummere, Old English 
Ballads ; Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; Sketches in History and Poetry ; 
Veitch, IListory and Poetry of the Scottish Border ; W. Allingham, The 
Ballad Book. 

EDMUND SPENSER 

The century which followed the death of Chaucer was not a fruitful 
one in literary art, yet sure foundations were being laid in the inven- 
tion of printing, the interest in classical studies, and the new life in the 
universities, so that when the impulse of the Renaissance came, it 
found a ready response. This impulse had its first great revelation in 
Spenser's Shepheard^s Calender, and with it modern poetry began. 
The Calender consists of a series of eclogues, modelled on those of 
Theocritus, one for each month in the year. Janiiarie, June, and 
December treat of Spenser's disappointment in love. On its publica- 
tion Spenser took his place by the side of Chaucer, " the pattern and 
fount of poetry." 

Colin Cloute is the pastoral name under which Spenser wrote, and 
Hobbinol is his friend Gabriel Plarvey. 

Spenser's love of Sidney is revealed in the Astrophel, the first of 
those splendid elegies which English poets have given to the world. 
It is dedicated to the daughter of the Earl of Essex, the Stella of Sid- 
ney's love. 

The Rosalind of the Shepheard''s Calender treated Spenser 'with 
scorn and foule despite,' and he gave up the hope of winning her. In 
1592 he met Elizabeth Boyle, and the story of his patient wooing and 
happy winning of her love is told in the Sonnets. 

"The flower of Edmund Spenser's genius is the most delicately per- 
fumed in the whole rich garden of English verse." — Edmund Gosse. 

" Spenser was at once the morning star of England's later, and the 
evening star of her earlier hterature." — Aubrey De Vere. 



NOTES: SPENSER; HOOKER; MARLOWE 629 

Biography and Criticism. — R. W. Church, English Men of Letters 
Series ; G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature ; J. R. Lowell, Ainong 
My Books; W. Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets ; E. Dowden, 
Transcripts arid Studies; J. C. Shairp, Poetic Lnterpretation of Nat- 
tire ; A. De Vere, Essays on Poetry, Vol. 11. ; W. J. Courthope, Llis- 
tory of English Poetry, Vol. II. 

RICHARD HOOKER 

Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity is one of the few theological works 
which attain the first rank in literature. His style is characterized by 
that peculiarity of Latin syntax which distorts the natural English 
order, and yet it is lighted up with such splendid outbursts of graceful 
rhetoric and noble eloquence that it is a model of Hellenic felicity, 
strength, and clearness. 

" The Ecclesiastical Polity is the first monument of splendid literary 
prose we possess." — S. A. Brooke. 

Biography and Criticism. — G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature ; 
E. Gosse, Modern Literature ; J. Ea'rle, English Prose ; Isaac Walton, 
Life of LLooker ; R. W. Church, Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity. 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

We often hear of ' Marlowe's mighty line,' but we seldom read it. 
This may be due to the fact that Shakespeare's sprightly line is so 
much more attractive, yet Marlowe occupies a commanding position 
among pre-Shakespearean dramatists, and is worthy of study both 
because of his intrinsic value as a poet and because of his relation to 
Shakespeare. In splendor of imagination, richness and stateliness of 
verse, strength and warmth of passion, he is at times almost the equal 
of Shakespeare. " Only Milton," says Mr. Swinburne, " has surpassed 
the opening soliloquy of Barabas." 

P. 112, 1. 39. halcyon's bill. Anciently a stuffed halcyon was sus- 
pended as a weather-vane. 

P. 117, 1. 188. From Terence's Andria, I am always dear to myself. 

P. 120, 1. 93. Corpo di Dio 1 By my Faith ! 

P. 129, 1. 39. My gains were not for everyone's benefit. 

P. 130, 1. 64. Exquisite pleasure of money. 



630 NOTES: MARLOWE; SHAKESPEARE . 

" The tragic imagination in its wildest flights has never summoned 
up images of pity and terror more imposing, more moving, than those 
excited by i\ie. Jew of Alalia.''^ — George Saintsbury. 

" By the force of poetry, not of dramatic art, Marlowe made a noble 
porch to the temple which Shakespeare built." — S. A, Brooke. 

Biography and Criticism. — J. A. Symonds, Introduction to Mar- 
lowe (Mermaid Series); Havelock Ellis, Christopher Alarlozue ; G. Saints- 
bury, Elizabethan Literature ; E. Dowden, Christopher Alarlozue 
(Transcripts and Studies) ; J. R. Lowell, The Old English Dramatists. 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnets 

We have not always given due consideration to the lyrical ele- 
ment in Shakespeare's works, so much has the dramatic attracted us. 
Wordsworth says, " With this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart." 
If this be so, he did not throw open the door wide enough for the 
critics to get a very clear view of what was within. Nothing in the 
history of literature is more humorous than the pranks Puck has 
played with these men. Life is too short to examine all the theories 
as to who was " W. H., the onlie begetter of these insuing sonnets." 
Some have refused to trace their origin to real incidents in Shake- 
speare's life, and think that they are allegorical or philosophical; that 
the young friend is the poet's Ideal Self, or the Spirit of Beauty; that 
the dark mistress is Dramatic Art, or the Bride of the Canticles, etc. 

Professor Dowden says : " In the Sonnets we recognize three things, 
— that Shakespeare was capable of measureless personal devotion; 
that he was tenderly sensitive, sensitive, above all, to every diminution 
or alteration of that love his heart so eagerly craved." 

Biography and Criticism. — H. Phillips, Outlines of the Life of 
Shakespeare ; Gervinus, Shakespeare Commentaries ; E. Dowden, 
Shakespeare, his Mind and Art; Shakespeare's Sonnets; H. N. 
Hudson, Shakespeare's Life^ Art, and Character ; C. Elze, William 
Shakespeare ; W. J. Rolfe, The Boyhood of Shakespeare ; W. Hazlitt, 
Lectures on the English Poets; G. Wyndham, The Poems of Shake- 
speare. 



NOTES: THE BIBLE; BACON 63 1 

THE BIBLE 

There can be no doubt that the influence of the Bible of 161 1, 
known as the Authorized ox King James Version, has exerted a greater 
influence in enriching and ennobhng English prose than has any other 
book in the language; and the process by which our English attains 
its distinction of directness, strength, and beauty, of simplicity, sub- 
limity, and harmony, ought to prove of interest to all students, " If 
we may reckon from the time when Tyndale may be supposed to have 
begun his work," says Professor Earle, "we may count the Bible of 161 1 
as the nation's travails of a hundred years." While the Revised Ver- 
sion has its advantages of translation and division of text into verse 
and prose, yet the Azithorized Edition will ever remain as the noblest 
example of the English tongue. 

" I have with deeper gratitude to chronicle what I owed to my 
mother for the resolutely consistent lessons which so exercised me in 
the Scriptures as to make every word of them familiar to my ear in 
habitual music. . . . This maternal installation of my mind in that 
property of chapters, I count very confidently the most precious, and, 
on the whole, the most essential, part of all my education." — RusKiN. 

Historical and Critical. — J. Earle, English Prose, Chap. XII.; 
G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature, Chap. VI.; J. R. Green, History 
of the English People, Bk. VII., Chap. I.; Bowen, A Layman'' s Sttidy 
of the English Bible, Chap. I. ; J. H. Newman, Idea of a University^ 
pp. 289, 290; A. S. Cook, The Bible and English Prose Style ; Taine, 
English Literature, Vol. I., " The Christian Renaissance." 

FRANCIS BACON 

It is a singular fact that, of the many writings of Bacon, the Essays 
which he committed to the frail bark of our English — which he thought 
would "play the bankrupt with books " — are those whose immortality 
is best assured. Their dignity, wealth of fancy, masculine grasp of eth- 
ical questions, language all compact, produce an effect, not of warmth 
and friendliness, but of intellectual activity. Bacon called himself " a 
bell-ringer who is up first to call others to church." 

P. 157, 1. 31. Vinum Daemonum. Wine of spirits (Augustine's 

Confessions^ . 



632 NOTES: BACON; J ON SON 

P. 161, 11. 39, 40. Abeunt studia in Mores. Studies terminate in 
manners. 

P. 161, 1. 50. Cymini sectores. Splitters of hairs, dialecticians. 

" As English prose Bacon's Essays is indeed a very remarkable book, 
especially as it lets us see through the now prevailing and rampant 
Classicism to some select retreat where the true English tradition 
flourishes with its native vigor." — Professor John Earle. 

Biography and Criticism. — R. W. Church, English Alen of Let- 
ters ; E. Gosse, Alodeni Literature ; G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Liter- 
ature ; J. Spedding, Letters and LAfe of Bacon and Life and Times; 
E. A. Abbott, Bacon and Essex ; P. Anton, England'' s Essayists. 

BEN JONSON 

The contrast between Shakespeare and Jonson has often been 
expressed by saying that one wrote plays, and the other works; but we 
must not forget that, with his ponderous learning and prodigious power 
of work, Jonson knew how to play. Witness that magnificent group 
of masques which he created between 1600 and 1635. Early in the 
reign of Elizabeth, when the miracle plays and mysteries were evolved 
into the pageant and the drama of Shakespeare, there was also evolved 
a ceremonial in which actors represented allegorical characters, and 
accompanied lords and ladies on great occasions for the purpose of 
lending interest by action, dialogue, music, and dance. In the reign 
of James I. and Charles I. these entertainments were frequent and 
magnificently apportioned. Artists, musicians, 'poets, and managers 
were commissioned to prepare the pageant for a marriage, a birthday, 
a royal visitor, or the reception of distinguished foreigners, and the 
pastoral or idyl of Spenser appeared as a pastoral drama or masque. 

P. 170, 1. 5. elementarii senes. Old men at their A B Cs. 

P. 170, 1. 27. Deorum hominumque interpres. The interpreter of 
gods and men. 

P. 170, 1. '^'Xi- 'EvKVKXoTraiSeiav. The circle of general education. 

P. 1 70, 1. 34. Verborum delectus origo est eloquentias. Choice of 
words is the beginning of eloquence. 

P. 171, k 42. translation. Rhetorical figure. 

P. 171, 1. 43. Nam temere nihil transferatur a prudenti. A wise 
man uses no metaphors at random. 



NOTES: J ON SON; MILTON 633 

"One title which no competent criticism has ever grudged him is 
that of the best epitaph writer in the English language." — George 
Saintsbury. 

Biography and Criticism. — G. Saintsbury, Elizabethan Literature ; 
'Ei^Gosst, Modern Literature ; Barry Cornwall, Memoir (J^loxow edition 
of Jonson's Works) ; E. P. Whipple, Literature of the Age of Elizabeth ; 
W. Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 

JOHN MILTON 

The stars which shed their influences around the cradle of Milton 
were of the Renaissance and Reformation respectively. The one was 
setting in splendor and beauty; the other was rising in dignity and 
power. The great names of Elizabethan England are Sidney, Spen- 
ser, Shakespeare; of Puritan England they are Milton and Bunyan. 
Milton is a solitary peak that caught the last gleams of the Renaissance 
and flashed them across a century. In their light arose Wordsworth 
and Coleridge, those 

"Twin morning stars of the new century's song." 

P. 178, 1. 102. Faery Mab. Cf. Romeo and Juliet, i. 4. 
P. 181, 1. 19. Ethiop. Cassiope. 
P. 183, 1. 109. him. Chaucer. 

" Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to be played 
before you enter upon him. But he brings his music, to which who 
listens had need bring docile thoughts and purged ears." — Charles 
Lamb. 

Milton's prose was developed in the heat of political and religious 
controversy. The Apology was in defence of his manner of life, and 
the Areopagitica, a plea for the free development of men and books. 
They are the finest specimens of his stately, brilliant, and lucid prose. 

Biography and Criticism. — D. Masson, Life of John Milton; R. 
Garnett, Great Writers; M.VdiX.Wsow, English Me?i of L^etters ; Axr\o\d, 
Essays in Criticism, 2d Series; A. Birrell, Obiter Dicta, Vol. II.; S. A. 
Brooke, Classical Writers (Milton); J. R. Lowell, Prose, IV.; H. Van 
Dyke, Poetry of Tennysoji (Milton and Tennyson) ; W. E. Channing, 
Works ; W. Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 



634 NOTES: BUTLER; BUN VAN 

SAMUEL BUTLER 

We have seen that the literature of the age of Elizabeth was char- 
acterized by the Greek spirit, — "spontaneity of consciousness"; and 
that of the Reformation by the Hebrew, — "strictness of conscience." 
As a result of the Restoration a new school arises, in which French 
influence prevails, emphasizing correctness of form rather than spon- 
taneity of feeling. Hence poetry becomes intellectual, even contro- 
versial. Butler represents the satiric, Dryden and Pope the didactic 
and critical, — of the head rather than of the heart. Hudibras reveals 
the fierce and caustic resentment against the Puritans. It was eagerly 
read at the very time when Milton's Paradise Lost remained almost 
unnoticed. 

P. 197, 1. 124. Sorbonist. Member of the French College of the 
Sorbonne. 

"The sense of Butler is masculine, his wit inexhaustible, and it is 
supplied from every source of reading and observation." — Hallam. 

Biography and Criticism. — E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
ture ; Modern Literature; H. Morley, LIudibras ; S. Johnson, Lives 
of the Poets. 

JOHN BUNYAN 

Pilgrim's Progress 

" To the Constables of Bedford and to every of them 

Whereas information and complaint is made unto us 
that (notwithstanding the King's Majties late Act of 

J. Napier most gracious generall and free pardon to all his sub- 

jects for past misdemeanors that by his said clemencie 
and indulgent grace and favor they might bee moved 

W. Beecher and induced for the time to come more carefully to 

observe his Highness' lawes and Statutes and to con- 

G. Blundell tinue in theire loyall and due obedience to his Majtie) 

Yett one John Bunnyon of youre said Towne Tynker 
hath divers times within one month last past in con- 
tempt of his Majties Good Lawes preached or teached 

Hum : Monoux at a Conventicle Meeting, or Assembly under color or 
ptence of exercise of Religion in other manner than 
according to the Liturgie or practiss of the Church of 



NOTES: BUN Y AN 635 

Will ffranklin England These are therefore in his Majties name to 
command you forthwith to apprehend and bring the 
Body of the said John Bunnion before us or any of us 
or other his Majties Justice of Peace within the said 

John Ventris County to answer the premisses and further to doo and 
receave as to Lavve and Justice shall appertaine and 
hereof you are not to faile. Given under our handes 
and scales this fforth day of March in the seven and 
twentieth yeare of the Raigne of our most gracious 
Soveraigne Lord King Charles the Second. A^ que 
Dili juxta &c 1674 

Will Spencer 
Will Gery St Jo Chervocke Wm Daniels 

T Browne W ffoster 

Gaius Squire " 

This warrant was the occasion of the second imprisonment of Bun- 
yan. During this imprisonment he wrote Pilgrim''s Progress. The 
place which this religious allegory holds in the history of English 
literature is unique. Its origin and its history combine to make it one 
of the most interesting of literary masterpieces which the world pos- 
sesses. In graphic characterization, in breadth of sympathy, in rich- 
ness of imagination, in clearness and force of homely Saxon speech, it 
is the greatest of all the monuments created by the English Bible. As 
a product of the influences of the Reformation, it stands beside the 
works of Milton, with which it is spiritually akin. 

" Bunyan, with whom the visionary power was often involuntary, 
would live for a day and a night in some metaphor that had attacked 
his imagination." — Edward Dowden. 

" For wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 
Shall enter in at lowly doors." — Tennyson. 

Biography and Criticism. — J. Brown, Bunyan: His Life and 
Works ; J. A. Froude, English Men of Letters ; E. Venables, Great 
Writers ; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; Macaulay, iS'.yjc-ryj, Vol. L; 
E. Gosse, Modern Literature. 



636 NOTES: DRYDEN; DEFOE 

JOHN DRYDEN 

Dryden is the greatest literary force in the Age of the Restoration 
because of the excellence as well as the variety of his work. With 
him English criticism begins. His criticism is based on the canon : 

" Polish, repolish, every color lay, 
And sometimes add, but oftener take away." 

He was a vigorous satirist, but always fair and honorable in combat, 
— a subtle intellectualist in verse. By force of his masculine reason 
he elevated criticism above creation, and for a century he was the 
literary dictator of a large band of craftsmen. He said, " They cannot 
be good poets who are not accustomed to argue well." 

The Elegy on Mrs. Anne Killegrezv, maid of honor to the Duchess 
of York, and Alexander's Feast reveal Dryden at his best in elegant, 
stately, and musical verse. 

P. 209, 1. 18. Virgil, Eclogue, I. As are the cypresses among the 
pliant shrubs. 

P. 212, 1. 99. wit. Used here in sense of genius. 

P. 213, 1. 23. traduction. Derived from one of the same kind. 

P. 217, 1. 162. Orinda. The poetess Katherine PhilHps. Anne 
Killegrew wrote some verses in her honor. 

"We are to regard Dryden as the puissant and glorious founder, 
Pope as the splendid high priest, of our age of prose and reason, of 
our excellent and indispensable eighteenth century. . . . Though they 
may write in verse, though they may in a certain sense be masters of 
the art of versification, Dryden and Pope are not classics of our poetry, 
they are classics of our prose." — Matthew Arnold. 

Biography and Criticism. — Johnson, Lives of the Poets; G. Saints- 
bury, English Men of Letters ; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Literature ; 
Macaulay, Essay on Dryden ; Lowell, Prose, Vol. HI.; Hazlitt, Lec- 
tures on the English Poets. 

DANIEL DEFOE 

The rise of periodical literature is the result of the new social activity 
in the reign of Anne. In 1704, Defoe established the Revie7V,m which 
his discussions on sulijects most interesting to the Scandalous Club were 
presented. Time plays pranks with the plans of men, and Robinson 



NOTES: DEFOE; SWIFT 637 

Crusoe, intended as a parable of Defoe's own life, " though allegorical," 
he says, " yet historical," has become a story of adventure pure and 
simple, — the greatest child book in the language. It is the first great 
English novel. 

''^Robinson Crusoe is one of the exceptional cases in which the poeti- 
cal aspect of a position is brought out best by the most prosaic accuracy 
of detail. The want of power in describing exertion, as compared with 
the amazing power of describing facts, makes I\obinso)i Crusoe a book 
for boys." — Leslie Stephen. 

P. 226, 1. 77. coup-de-grace. Blow that would kill. 
P. 230, 1. 45. fire. The great fire in London, 1666. 

In i\\e. Journal of ike Plague in London, we see Defoe as a chronicler, 
of infinite pains, versatile, clear, and easy in style, yet not altogether 
free from the commonplace. 

Biography and Criticism. — W. Minto, English Men of Letters; 
L. Stephen, Hours in a Library^ Vol. I.; Hazlitt, Early Life and 
Works ; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Literature ; A. Q. Couch, Ad- 
ventures in Criticism ; W. Raleigh, The English A^ovel ; D. Masson, 
British Novelists ; T. Wright, Defoe ; W. Chadwick, Life and Ti/nes 
of Daniel Defoe. 

JONATHAN SWIFT 

The life of Dean Swift abounds in the most startling contradictions. 
He was poor, proud, a good hater, and a passionate lover. He sinned 
greatly, and he suffered greatly; he was unforgetful and unforgiving. 
He aimed his shafts at Dissenters, the Church of England in which he 
was a high official, and the Cathohcs, The Battle of the Books was 
written to defend Temple against the insinuations of Bentley and 
Walton, which appeared in their Reflections tipon Ancient and Modern 
Learning. 

Swift's inventive genius was of the first order, his language vigorous, 
his satire keen, and his indignation tempestuous. All of these charac- 
teristics are revealed in that " gospel of hatred and testament of woe," 
Gulliver's Travels, where he mocks at the social life, satirizes the in- 
ventors and philosophers, and ridicules the politicians. 

P. 237, 1. 83. brutum hominis. Irrational part of man. 



638 NOTES: SWIFT; ADDISON 

Addison, on sending one of his books to Swift, wrote on the blank 

leaf: 

" To Dr. Jonathan Swift, 

The most agreeable companion. 

The truest friend, 

And the greatest genius of the age." 

" If the stormy Dean had known that his Gulliver book would be 
mostly relished by young folks, only for its story, and that its tremen- 
dous satire — which he intended should cut and draw blood — would 
have only rarest appreciation, how he would have raved and sworn ! " 
— D. G. Mitchell. 

Biography and Criticism. — E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
ture; Modern Literattire ; L. Stephen, English Men of Letters ; G. Daw- 
son, Biographical Lectures ; S. Johnson, lAves of the Poets; Hazlitt, 
Lectures on the English Poets ; A. Birrell, Men, Women and Books. 



JOSEPH ADDISON 

The Review was followed by the Spectator in 1611, by which the 
English essay was created as one of the most enduring of literary forms. 
In its columns there appeared those splendid studies of man and nature 
which have made the name of Addison a household word, and genial 
Sir Roger a delight of old and young. In graphic portraiture and 
genial humor, in sweet temper and moral purity, combined with a 
courtly grace and tender sympathy, Addison stands surpassingly great. 
He is a great poet using the form of prose. His imagination is asso- 
ciative, penetrative, and reflective. 

" Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, 
and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the 
reading of Addison." — Samuel Johnson. 

Biography and Criticism. — W. J. Courthope, English Men of 
Letters Series ; J. Ashton, Social Life in the Reign of Queen Anne ; 
Macaulay, Essay on Addison ; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets 
(The Periodical Essayists); Johnson, Lives of the Poets; E. Gosse, 
Eighteenth Century Literature. 



NOTES: POPE; THOMSON 639 

ALEXANDER POPE 

Imagination and passion disappeared from poetry with the new criti- 
cism, the introduction of drawing-room subjects and court finery. In. 
Pope the classical spirit attained its fullest and completes! development. 
On the death of Dryden he ascended the vacant throne, and ruled with 
despotic power. Though his work is as various as that of his great 
predecessor, it is lacking in breadth and robustness. Dexterity and 
elegance take the first position. The follies of fashion or the frigid 
inteilectualism of a thin philosophy claim the most attention; and yet 
it cannot be doubted that Pope was an artist who loved art for its 
own sake, even at a time when it was degraded to mere pecuniary 
ends. 

" Measured by any high standard of imagination. Pope will be found 
wanting; tried by any test of wit, he is unrivalled." — Lowell. 

Biography and Criticism. — L. Stephen, English Men of Letters ; 
Thackeray, Henry Esuiond ; Addison, Spectator, No. 253; Johnson, 
Lives of the Poets ; De Quincey, Essay on Pope ; On the Poetry of Pope ; 
Lowell, Essay on Pope ; Gosse, From Shakespeare to Pope ; Eighteenth 
Century Literature ; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 



JAMES THOMSON 

The dawn of the new era (Modern Period) is heralded by Thomson, 
Gray, Collins, and Goldsmith. New subjects, new spirit, new forms, 
were now to be the watchword. With the first movements of the 
rights of man — due to the principles of Milton and Vane, which had 
taken root in France — a new religious activity due to the fact that 
the best elements of Puritanism had lived in the simple quietude of 
country life among strong men and noble women, and a fresh feel- 
ing for nature, a reaction from the stifling atmosphere of town life, 
manifested themselves in the new movement, which was democratic, 
deeply religious, simple, fresh, and true. Thomson's Seasons reveal 
the first impulse of the new life. They are simple, direct, and vigorous, 
when compared with any work of the classic period. They are some- 
what after the manner of the early Scottish poets. He wrote with his 
eye on the subject, and has given some delightful nature work. 



640 NOTES: THOMSON; JOHNSON 

P. 281, 1. loi. There was a man, etc. William Paterson, Thom- 
son's amanuensis. 

P. 282, 1. 129. One shyer still. The poet Armstrong. 

"No degeneracy of education or of fashion, short of an absolute 
return to barbarism, can prevent The Seasons from attracting admira- 
tion as soon as they are read or heard." — George Saintsbury. 

Biography and Criticism. — E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
ture ; J. Veitch, Feeling for Nature in Scottish Poetry ; J. C. Shairp, 
Poetic Interpretation of Nature ; W. Minto, Literature of the Georgian 
Era; Johnson, IJves of the Poets; G. Saintsbury, IVarPs English 
Poets, Vol. III.; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets; W. Bayne, 
Famous Scots Series. 

SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Johnson is in many respects as strange a character as Swift. He 
ascended the loveless intellectual throne made vacant by the death of 
Pope; but already forces were at work which were to set aside the 
petty rules so slavishly obeyed from Dryden to Pope, and return again 
to the great principles which characterized the Elizabethans, John- 
son's work is as varied in prose as that of his predecessors in verse. 
The Pajnbler and 7^he Ldler, successors to I'he Latter and The Spec- 
tator, furnished the medium through which much of his work was given 
to the public. The Preface to his edition of Shakespeare is full of the 
ripest good sense, while the Letter to the Earl shows how independent 
of patronage he was. 

"The more we study Johnson, the higher will be our esteem for 
the power of his mind, the width of his interests, the largeness of 
his knowledge, the freshness, fearlessness, and strength of his judg- 
ments." — Matthew Arnold. 

Biography and Criticism. — Boswell's Life of Johnson, edited by 
G. Birkbeck Hill; L. Stephen, English Men of L^etters ; Hawthorne, 
Our Old Home ; Essays on Johnson, by Macaulay and Carlyle, in John- 
son'' s Lives of the Poets, edited by Matthew Arnold; F. Grant, Great 
Writers ; A. Birrell, Obiter Dicta, Vol. II.; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Cen- 
tury Literature ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library. 



NOTES: GRAY; COLLINS 64 1 

THOMAS GRAY 

" He never spoke out. In these four words," says Arnold, "is con- 
tained the whole history of Gray, both as a man and as a poet." In 
the age of transition Gray did a noble work in prose and verse, in 
that he was the first Englishman to reveal the beauties of English 
landscape. His letters describing nature in Yorkshire and Westmore- 
land are even superior to his poetry in minuteness, freshness, and 
wealth of imagery. The Elegy is English in every detail; in it are 
united the love of nature and the love of man. 

" If few English poets have written so little, none certainly have 
written so little that has fallen into oblivion." — Leslie Stephen. 

Biography and Criticism. — E. Gosse, English Men of Letters; 
Eighteeiith Centtiry Literature ; J. C. Shairp, Poetic Interpretation of 
Nature; M. Arnold, Essays on Criticistn, 2d Series; J. R. Lowell, 
Latest Literary Essays; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. III.; 
W. L. Phelps, Selections froin the Prose and Poetty of Gray (Intro- 
duction); W. Minto, Literature of the Georgian Era. 

WILLIAM COLLINS 

In the work of Collins there is much less restraint than in that of 
Gray. Collins indeed spoke out. This was due in part to the fact that 
he was not troubled by any of the critical sensitiveness which made 
Gray cautious. His love of beauty in man and nature was more intense 
than that of Gray. 

P. 306, 1. 36. Till they, etc. The Medici. 

P. 312,1. I. In yonder grave. Thomson was buried in Richmond 
Church. 

"The direct sincerity and purity of their positive and straightforward 
inspiration will always keep his poems fresh and sweet to the senses of 
all men. He was a solitary song-bird among many more or less excel- 
lent pipers." — A. C. Swinburne. 

Biography and Criticism. — E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
ture; W. Minto, Literattire of the Georgian Era; J. C. Shairp, Poetic 
Interpretation of Nature ; A. C. Swinburne, Warcfs English Poets, 
Vol, HI.; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 

2T 



642 NOTES: GOLDSMITH; BURKE 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Goldsmith, the impassioned, wayward, frolicsome Irishman, is one of 
the best loved of the poets; he is loved for his very eccentricity. His 
life is fascinating in its nobility and foolishness. In the Deserted Vil- 
lage and the Vicar of Wakefield we have his love of nature and man, 
shot through with the characteristic elements of his varied and event- 
ful life. They are graceful and touching in their revelation of the 
pleasures and pains of mortal life, and yet there is not an element of. 
bitterness. In each nature and man are revealed with distinctness and 
color, with warmth and naturalness, entirely new to English literature. 
No changes of literary fashion can ever lessen the estimation in which 
these works are held by all who love simplicity and truth, 

" It is doubtful whether, either before, during, or since Wordsworth's 
time, the sentiment that the imagination can infuse into the common 
things around us ever received more happy expression." — William 
Black. 

Biography and Criticism. — W. Black, English Men of Letters ; A. 
Dobson, Great Writers ; Macaulay, Essay on Goldsmith ; De Quincey, 
Essay on Goldsmith ; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; J. C. Shairp, 
Poetic Interpretation of Nature ; E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
ture ; W. Minto, Literature of the Georgian Era. 

EDMUND BURKE 

During the last half of the eighteenth century, when the energy of 
England was taxed to its utmost in the political arena, there was devel- 
oped the literature of oratory, and British eloquence added new splen- 
dor to prose. The times were seeking the man of large and liberal 
ideas. There existed a reading public. Parliamentary speeches were 
now allowed to be published. The press was practically free to praise 
or blame. The post carried the pamphlet and the newspaper to the 
villages, and thus the English people became the audience. At length 
the man was found, and that man was Edmund Burke. 

The Speeches on the American War reveal Burke in his most charm- 
ing attitude. He is calm, clear, logical, nobly tolerant, and grandly 
wise. 



NOTES: BURKE; COWPER 643 

" Burke is not literary because he takes from books, but because he 
makes books, transmuting what he writes upon into Hterature. It is 
this inevitable literary quality, this sure mastery of style, that mark the 
man, as much as the thought itself." — WOODROW Wilson. 

" Wordsworth has been called the High Priest of Nature," says Mr. 
Augustine Birrell, " and Burke may be called the Iligh Priest of Order 
— a lover of settled ways, justice, peace, and security. His writings 
are a storehouse of wisdom, not the cheap shrewdness of the mere man 
of the world, but the noble, animating wisdom of one who has the 
poet's heart as well as a statesman's brain." 

Biography and Criticism. — J. Morley, English Men of Letters ; 
Goodrich, Select British Eloquence ; F. W. Maurice, Friendship of 
Books ; Hazlitt, Political Essays and Eloquence of the British Senate; 
Sketches and Essays ; Macaulay, Essay on Burke ; W. Wilson, Mere 
Literature (Interpreter of English History) ; K. J. George, ed. Burke's 
American Orations. 

WILLIAM COWPER 

In Cowper and Burns the new movement received its second great 
impulse. These poets wrought at their tasks, each unconscious of the 
existence of the other, until one had published the Task, and the other 
the first edition of his poems. The one in the dewy meadows of 
Buckinghamshire, and the other on the Ayrshire hills, saw Nature as 
she had not been seen since the time of Chaucer, — in all her freshness 
and beauty. Cowper's life was in many ways a sad one, and yet it is 
through him that the religious element unites the love of nature and 
man through the life of the lower animals about us. With birds and 
beasts Cowper claimed fraternity. The revolutionary idea of the unity 
of man was thus centred in the God of man and nature. 

" Nowhere in our poetry is there heard a finer scorn of vanity, ambi- 
tion, meanness; nowhere is truth more nobly exalted, or justice more 
sternly glorified. His tenderness for the weak and poor and wronged 
is as sweet as his hatred of oppression is strong." — S. A. Brooke. 

Biography and Criticism. — G. Smith, English Men of Letters ; 
W. Bagehot, Literary Studies, Vol. I.; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, 
Vol. III.; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; J. C. Shairp, Poetic Ln- 
terpretation of Nature ; S. A. Brooke, Theology in the English Poets ; 



644 NOTES: GIBBON; BLAKE 

Mrs. Oliphant, Literature of the Eighteenth Century ; W. Minto, Litera- 
ture of the Georgian Era ; Hazlitt, Lectures on the English Poets. 

EDWARD GIBBON 

Prose now becomes the medium through which the Hfe of the past 
is made real, and, in the hands of Gibbon, the greatest master of his- 
torical literature of the century, it attains distinct literary character. 
Gibbon is an excellent illustration of those characteristics which Senator 
Hoar gives as those of a great historian : " He must be capable of seeing 
clearly the great forces which determine the currents of human affairs; 
he must have the profound judgment and the insight of the phi- 
losopher; he must have the imagination of the poet, idealizing the 
national history with which he deals; he must have the artist's gift of 
portraiture." 

" Gibbon abated his pretensions as a philosopher, was content to 
attempt some picture of the thing acted — of the great pageant of 
history — and succeeded." — Augustine Birrell. 

"It was at Rome in 1764, while musing amid the ruins of the Capi- 
tol, that the idea of writing his book arose in his mind, and his con- 
ception of the work was that of an artist." — S. A. Brooke. 

Biography and Criticism. — E. Gosse, Eighteenth Century Litera- 
ture ; Autobiography .^ with Essay, by W. D. Howells; R. E. Prothero, 
Letters of Gibbon; J. C. Morison, English Men of Letters ; W. Bage- 
hot, Literary Studies, Vol. H. ; A. Birrell, L^es JudicateB ; H. Rogers, 
Biographies of Illustrious Men. 

WILLIAM BLAKE 

Blake, the poet, painter, printer, and publisher, combines elements 
which make him unique among the men of his time. He was the first 
poet of child life, and his work is fresh and strong with the angel music 
of babyhood. He never attempted complex problems, but forever gave 
himself to reflecting with grace and simplicity the effects of beauty 
which impress the untutored child. He was " a being all sensitiveness 
and lyric passion, and delicate aerial mystery." 

" He possessed in a rare degree the secret by which the loveliness of 
a scene can be arrested and registered in a line of verse, and he often 
displays a faultless choice of language, and the finest sense of poetic 
melody." — Comyns Carr. 



1 



NOTES: BURNS; WORDSWORTH; COLERIDGE 645 

Biography and Criticism. — W. M. Rossctti, Memoir in Blake's 
Poetical Works; C. Patmore, Principle in Art; C. Carr, WanVs 
English Poets, Vol. III.; Vida Scudder, Life of the Spirit in IModern 
English Poetry. 

ROBERT BURNS 

In simplicity, spontaneity, passion, and pathos — the absolute spirit 
of poetry — Burns and Blake have never been surpassed. Burns vi^as 
the poet of the toiling multitude. He could laugh with those v^'ho 
laughed, and shed tears with those in sorrow. His sympathies were 
universal as the atmosphere and sunshine. By revealing a womanly 
tenderness for all of God's creatures, Burns made poetry reflect as never 
befcjre the religion of Christ. His scorn of hypocrisy and littleness led 
him into extremes perhaps, but this was to be preferred to the laissez 
faire method of many of his time. 

" Not Latimer, not Luther, struck more telling blows against false 
theology than did this brave singer. The Confession of Augsburg, the 
Declaration of Independence, the French Rights of Man, are not more 
weighty documents in the history of freedom than the songs of Burns." 
— Emerson. 

Biography and Criticism. — J. C. Shairp, English Afeji of Letters; 
Poetic Interpretation of Nature ; J, S. Blackie, Great Writers ; Setoun, 
Famous Scots Series ; S. A. Brooke, Theology in the English Poets; 
Emerson, miscellanies ; Carlyle, Essay on Burns ; C. Kingsley, Liter- 
ary Essays ; Mrs. Oliphant, lAterary History of England, Vol. I.; 
G. Saintsbury, Literature of the Nineteenth Century ; Select Poems of 
Robert Burns, edited by A. J. George. 

WORDSV^ORTH AND COLERIDGE 

Natural and beautiful was the association of Wordsworth and Cole- 
ridge, and the history of our literature has nothing more interesting and 
suggestive than the friendship of these men. The circumstances under 
which this love was fostered and sustained, and in consequence of which 
each attained heights from which has been shed ever-enduring radiance, 
are worthy of frequent repetition. The main impulse to that poetry and 
criticism, which has been the most stimulating and productive " in its 
application of ideas to life, in its natural magic and moral profundity," 



646 NOTES: WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE 

was the creation of this friendship. It created that little volume, the 
Lyrical Ballads^ which has exerted a greater influence on English 
literature than has any other single volume. 

Coleridge produced all of his poetry, which is of the first order, 
directly under the influence of Wordsworth. It is to be regretted that 
no adequate answer to the question, " What was the reciprocal influ- 
ence of these men upon each other?" has ever been given. We may 
beHeve that each evoked the best in the other, that Wordsworth gained 
no less than Coleridge by the friendship. 

" Coleridge was the ivy," says Mr. Alois Brandl, " which at last found 
the oak on which it could lean and unfold its luxuriance. But with 
him the act of twining and climbing was more important than the 
result; with Wordsworth the result was the chief thing." 

As Coleridge was one of the first to reveal certain aspects of external 
nature, so was he the first to seize upon those principles of relationship 
between thought and action, spirit and form, which determine the ethi- 
cal and aesthetic value of verse and prose. He was our first great 
philosophical critic. 

P. 405, 1. 105. The Zoili. Zoilus was a Greek rhetorician, called 
Homeromastix, Scourge of Homer, from his severe criticisms on that 
poet. 

" In this, I conceive, lies Wordsworth's transcendent power, that the 
ideal light he sheds is a true light; and the more ideal it is. the more 
true." — J. C. Shairp. 

" Of Coleridge's best verses, I venture to affirm that the world has 
nothing like them, and can never have." — A. C, Swinburne. 

Biography and Criticism. — Wordsworth: W. Knight, Life of 
Wordsworth, 3 vols. ; F. W. Myers, English Men of Letters ; S. A. 
Brooke, Theology in the English Poets ; Shairp, Studies in Poetry and 
Philosophy ; E. Dowden, French Revolutioii on English Literature ; 
Nezv Studies in Literature ; H. N. Hudson, Studies on Wordsworth : 
De Vere, Essays Chiefly on Poetry ; R. H. Hutton, Literary Essays ; 
Arnold, Essays in Criticis?n, 2d Series; W. Pater, Appreciations ; 
R. Noel, Essays on Poetry ; F. W\ Robertson, Lectures and Addresses ; 
W. Bagehot, Literary Studies ; De Quincey, Literary Criticism. 
Coleridge: H. D. Traill, English Men of Letters ; A. Brandl, Cole- 
ridge; H. Caine, Great Writers ; J. D. Campbell, Life of Coleridge ; 



NOTES: SCOTT 647 

W. Pater, Apprecialioiis ; J. C. Shairp, Studies in Poet}'y and Philoso- 
phy ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Libra>y, Vol. III. ; S. A. Brooke, 
Theology in the English Poets ; De Quincey, Literary Reminiscences. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT 

Together with the democratic movement in literature and life there 
came the Mediaeval Revival v^'hich took two directions : art, resulting 
in the romanticism of Scott; and religion, resulting in the Oxford move- 
ment under Newman. 

Scott was born in literary Edinburgh, but on account of physical 
infirmity he was early taken to the farm of his paternal grandfather at 
Sandyknowe, on the slopes of Smailholm crags. At the summit of the 
crags stood the grim old sentinel, Smailholm tower, guarding the Bor- 
derland, where " every field has its battle and every rivulet its song." 
Not far away was the venerable Abbey of Dryburgh, the Eildons, and 
the stretches of Lammermoor, Melrose, " like some tall rock with lichens 
gay," almost encircled by the Tweed; while the vales of Ettrick and 
Yarrow, fragrant with song and ballad, could be seen in the dis- 
tance. 

Such were the sights that fed the wandering eyes of Scott's infancy 
and boyhood, while his ear was trained to ballad, song, and story by 
the grandmother and her auld gudeman. His aunt fired his imagina- 
tion by the tales of Jamie Telfer, Wat of Harden, wight Willie, and by 
the old ballads. " Hardiknute," says Scott, "was the first poem I ever 
learnt, and the last I shall ever forget." From such influences came 
the splendid verse and prose of the great magician. 

" Others can name the plates of a coat of armour more learnedly 
than he, but he made men wear them. He put living men under his 
castled roofs, living men into his breastplates and taslets." — A. Lang, 

Biography and Criticism. — R. H. Hutton, English Men of Letters; 
Prof. Yonge, Great Writers; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Litera- 
ture ; YivcciViZwtW, Lands of Scott ; (Z2x\y\t, Miscellanies ; L.Stephen, 
Hours in a Library ; J. C. Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; A. Lang, Letters 
to Dead Atithors ; Essays in LAttle ; W. J. Dawson, ALakers of Modern 
English; R. H, Hutton, Contemporary Thought and Thinkers, Vol. 
II.; Sainte-Beuve, Essays; A. Q. Couch, Adventures in Criticism; 
Hazlitt, The Spirit of the Age. 



648 NOTES: LAND OR ; LAMB 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

Landor was a Greek in spirit, a classical writer in an age of romance, 
and he offers marked contrast to Scott, the great romancer. In roman- 
tic writing objects are seen in detail and in an atmosphere of varying 
cloud and sunshine; in classic, every idea is presented as plainly and 
simply as possible, and is almost devoid of color. Romantic writing is 
full of movement, is democratic in spirit; classic is characterized by 
repose, and is aristocratic, revealing the depth and serenity of the soul. 

Landor has been less read than his romantic brothers, but his influ- 
ence has been great, and his work has been warmly praised by the 
judicious few. In an age of diffuseness, when the newspaper and the 
periodical usurp the place of books, it is well to read Landor. 
"Through the trumpet of a child of Rome 
Rang the pure music of the flutes of Greece." 

Landor said: "I shall dine late; but the dining-room will be well 
lighted, and the guests few and select." 

" With all his remoteness, I can think of no author who has oftener 
brimmed my eyes with tears of admiration or sympathy. He has 
uttered more wisdom on such topics of life and thought as interested 
or occurred to him than is to be found outside of Shakespeare." 
— Lowell. 

Biography and Criticism. — Forster, Life of landor; S. Colvin, 
English Men of Letters ; Lowell, Latest Literary Plssays ; E. Dowden, 
Studies on Literature ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. IL; A. 
De Vere, Essays, Vol. IL; E. C. Stedman, Victorian Poets ; Mrs. Oli- 
phant, Literary LListory of England ; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century 
Literature ; De Quincey, Literary Criticism. 

CHARLES LAMB 

There are some men whom we admire in spite of the fact that they 
move in a world quite apart from that of our own joys and sorrows; 
there are others whom we love because they are touched with the feel- 
ing of our infirmities. To the latter class belonged Charles Lamb, 
His life was the saddest, sweetest, tenderest, and most heroic to be 
found in the annals of English letters. The story of Charles and Mary 
Lamb is the story of a brother's love and sacrifice; that of William 



NOTES: LAMB; HAZLITT 649 

and Dorothy Wordsworth is one of mutual helpfulness; but that of 
Cowper and Mary Unwin is one of woman's sacrifice under conditions 
similar to that of the Lambs. Such revelations are more convincing 
evidences of Christianity than all the treatises. It is well to know the 
tragedy in Lamb's life, for under its pressure he gave out his sweetest 
fragrance, his most bewitching humor, his mad fun and fooling. 

P. 426, 1. 43. lene tormentum. Mild torture. 

P. 436, 1. 152. mundus edibilis. Kingdom of things eatable. 

P. 436, 1. 153. princeps obsoniorum. The chief of victuals. 

P. 437, 1. 157. amor immunditiae. Love of uncleanness. 

"In his subtle capacity for enjoying the more refined points of earth, 
of human relationship, he could throw the gleam of poetry or humor 
on what seemed common or threadbare; has a care for sighs and the 
weary, humdrum preoccupations of very weak people, down to their 
little pathetic ' gentilities ' even; while, in the purely human temper, 
he can write of death almost like Shakespeare." — Walter Pater. 

Biography and Criticism. — A. Ainger, English Men of Letters ; 
Letter's of Charles Lamb ; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Litera- 
ture ; A. Birrell, Res fudicatiB ; Obiter Dicta, Vol. II.; W. later. 
Appreciations ; G. Dawson, Biographical Lectures ; De Quincey, Bio- 
graphical Essays; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary Llistory of England; 
P. Anton, England'' s Essayists. 

WILLIAM HAZLIIT 

It should be considered a great commendation of any man to be 
called the friend of Lamb, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and De Quin- 
cey. Hazlitt was thus honored in virtue of those splendid Hterary 
tastes and perceptions which were a consuming passion, and which 
belong to the " Catholic Apostolic Church of Literature." It is to the 
establishment of the great Reviews, — 77ie Quarterly, the Nezv Review, 
Blackwood's, and the Edinburgh Review, — that we owe the best pro- 
ductions in the critical and general essay. In criticism Hazlitt belongs 
to the school of Coleridge and De Quincey, and while at times he 
lacks the balance of the greatest, yet his work on the whole is charac- 
terized by insight and a generous recognition of the best. Lamb said 
that he was a great authority when he praised. Shakespearean criti- 
cism began in England with Coleridge and Hazlitt, and has never 



650 NOTES: HAZLITT; HUNT; DE QUINCE Y 

attained greater heights than with them. Hazhtt's general essays are 
even more interesting than his criticisms, for in them we find less of 
his pecuUar limitations. In many respects they are as admirable as 
those of Addison. 

"The same literary qualities mark all his writings. ... If he is not 
a great rhetorician, if he aims at no gorgeous effects of complex har- 
mony, he has yet an eloquence of his own." — Leslie Stephen. 

Biography and Criticism. — G. Saintsbury, AHneteenth Century 
Literature ; Essays on English Literature ; A. Birrell, lies Judicatcz ; 
L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. II. ; De Quincey, Literary Criti- 
cism ; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary History of England. 

LEIGH HUNT 

Among the distinguished literary men who graced the close of last 

century and the first half of this, not the least interesting is Leigh 

Hunt, the "Ariel of Criticism," as he was often called. He holds his 

position by virtue of his prose, and yet he wrote verse which in a time 

of less distinction would have been considered of no mean order. 

Lamb alludes to his literary activity in the periodical, the Indicator, as 

follows : — 

" Wit, poet, proseman, party man, translator, 

Hunt, thy best title yet is ' Indicator.' " 

As was to be expected from a man who had as passionate a love of 
beauty as Keats, the most of his criticism is aesthetic. 

" For most people a true opinion persuasively stated is of much more 
consequence than the most elaborate logical justification of it; and it 
is this that makes Leigh Hunt's criticism such excellent good reading." 
— George Saintsbury. 

Biography and Criticism. — G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century 
Literature ; Essays in Ejiglish Literature ; C. Monkhouse, English 
Writers; C. Clarke, Recollections of Writers; Hawthorne, Our Old 
Home ; Hazlitt, The Spirit of the Age ; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary His- 
tory of England. 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

With De Quincey we are still in the charmed circle of that splendid 
fraternity of artists in prose and verse. The chief distinction of the 



NOTES: DE QUINCE Y ; BYRON 65 I 

London Magazine in the twenties was that it gave to the world the 
inimital)le Essays of Elia and De Quincey's startling dream fantasies, 
The Confessions of an English Opiiun- Eater. After his settlement at 
the Lakes he became a valiant defender of that despised "Lake School," 
of which Wordsworth was the arch heretic in revolt against the ac- 
credited literary creed of the day. Lamb, Hazlitt, and Hunt paid 
much less attention to beauty of form than to truth and seriousness of 
subject, but with De Quincey the art of felicitous imaginative splendor 
of rhythmic form — a revelation of corresponding splendor of thought 
which creates style — reached its highest manifestation. It is a cause 
of pride that Americans were the first to conceive the idea of putting 
the 150 magazine articles of De Quincey into permanent form. It is 
not the only instance of our recognition of the value of the British 
article before it was praised at home. The sixteen volumes are full of 
the keenest intellectual perception, — exact, penetrative, analytic. They 
are never dull, because they are hghted up with a playful humor and 
fun-loving fancy not at all incompatible with passion and pathos. 

" A great deal of De Quincey's best and most characteristic writing 
is in the stately and elaborate splendour, of prolonged wheeling and 
soaring, as distinct from the style of crackle and brief glitter, of chirp 
and short flight." — Masson. 

Biography and Criticism. — D. Masson, English Men of Letters ; 
L. Stephen, Hours in a Library^ Vol. L; Mrs. Oliphant, Literary His- 
tory of England ; W. Minto, Characteristics of English Prose Style; 
P. Anton, England'' s Essayists. 

LORD BYRON 

Fate has not dealt kindly with B3Ton, for it has led him from the 
extreme of adulation to the extreme of detraction; and it is far better 
to be seated in the mean; " Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, 
but competency lives longer." For a time Byron was the only star in 
the ascendant; Wordsworth was but a mere rushlight. But our pur- 
pose in reading should not be to set poet against poet, rather to find 
the excellences of each. Byron's life was a sad one, and he is entitled 
to our sympathy from the first : — 

" What's done we partly may compute. 
But know not what's resisted.'^ 



652 NOTES: BYRON; SHELLEY 

As we should expect in a man " proud as Lucifer and beautiful as 
Apollo," the personal note in Byron is supreme. It is the note of a 
struggling Titan's tempest-anger, tempest-mirth; and yet his best work 
reached the very pinnacle of poetic glory. He has the distinction of 
having made English letters appreciated in Europe. 

"Along with his astounding power and passion, he had a strong and 
deep sense of what is beautiful in nature and for what is beautiful in 
human action and suffering." — Arnold. 

Biography and Criticism. — R. Noel, English Writers ; Gait, Life 
of Byron ; J, Nichol, English ]\Len of Letters ; G. Saintsbury, Litera- 
ture of the Nineteenth Century; R. H. Hutton, Literary Essays ; 
Arnold, Essays in Criticism, 2d Series ; A. Lang, Letters to Dead 
Authors ; W. J. Dawson, Makers of Modern English ; R. Noel, Essays 
on Poets ; E. P. Whipple, Essays and Revietvs, Vol. I.; C. Kingsley, 
Essays ; J. Morley, Miscellanies, Vol. I. 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Byron was forever struggling against himself, Shelley against the 
forces of his environment; and as he could not change them, he set 
himself in open revolt against them. He allied himself with the 
French Revolution, as did Wordsworth, but with results as different 
as his temperament was different from that of Wordsworth. Arnold's 
representation of him as a " beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in 
the void his luminous wings in vain," reveals that phase of his life 
which was most prominent, and yet it needs to be supplemented by 
that other phase of his life in which he created those beautiful poems 
full of the lyrical cry, of a passionate love of nature, and of the magic 
of style. 

" Shelley is probably the English writer who has achieved the highest 
successes in pure lyric, whether of an elaborate and antiphonal order, 
or of that which springs in a stream of soaring music straight from the 
heart." — Edmund Gosse. 

Biography and Criticism, — J. A. Symonds, English Men of Let- 
ters ; W. Sharp, Great Writers ; E. Dowden, Life of Shelley ; Studies 
in Literature ; D. Masson, Wordsivorth, Shelley, and LCeats ; J. C. 
Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; A. Lang, Letters to Dead Authors ; S. A. 



NOTES: KEATS; CARLYLE 653 

Brooke, Introduction to Selections from Shelley ; G. Saintsbury, Ni^ie- 
teenth Century Literature ; L. Stephen, Hours in a Library, Vol. III.; 
R. Noel, Essays on Poets ; Arnold, Essays in Criticism, 2d Series. 

JOHN KEATS 

Keats's life was too short for his faculties to ripen into the rich fruit 
which they promised, and yet the luxurious blossoms yielded a fragrance 
which has an immortal charm. He was a true Elizabethan, intoxicated 
with the passion for beauty. He said that what the imagination seized 
as Beauty must be Truth. "The Eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, 
and the Memory of Great Men" he worshipped; but to the public he 
would not even bow. " I never wTote a single line of poetry," says he, 
" with the least shadow of thought about their opinion." Keats reached 
truth through beauty, as Browning reached beauty through truth. The 
atmosphere of Keats's best work is serene, balmy, and refreshing, as 
exhilarating as that of the loveliest English morning in May. 

" By virtue of his feeling for beauty and of his perception of the 
vital connection of beauty with truth, Keats accomplished so much in 
poetry that in one of the two great modes by which poetry interprets, 
in the faculty of naturalistic interpretation, in what we call natural 
magic, Keats ranks with Shakespeare. No one else in English poetry, 
save Shakespeare, has in expression quite the fascinating felicity of 
Keats, his perfection of loveliness." — Arnold. 

Biography and Criticism. — S. Coivin, English Men of Letters; 
W. M. Rossetti, Great Writers ; R. M. Milnes, Letters and Literary 
Remains; G. ^2\x\X.'ih\\x'^ , Nineteenth Centiiry Literature ; D. Masson, 
Wordszvorth, Shelley, and Keats; E. Gosse, Critical LCit ICats ; 
W. Watson, Excursions in Criticism ; Arnold, Essays in Criticism, 
2d Series; R. Noel, Essays on Poets ; C. Patmore, Principle in Art ; 
H. VV. Mabie, Essays in Literary Lnterpretation. 

THOMAS CARLYLE 

The life and work of Carlyle fall into two periods. The first 
period, extending until 1834, when he settles in London, may be called 
a sort of Preparatio Evangelica. In it he wrote his great works in 
interpretation of literature; in it, too, his life was quickened and 
enriched by the friendship of two rare souls, — Goethe and Emerson. 



654 NOTES: CARLYLE; MACAU LAY 

The second period is that of Sturm tind Drang — storm and stress 
— in which he wore himself out, body, mind, and soul, in the herculean 
task of cleansing the life and thought of his time from the sordid and 
the selfish. His was the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and this 
was his cry : " As the highest Gospel was a Biography, so is the life of 
every good man an indubitable Gospel, and preaches to the eye, and 
heart, and whole man, man is heaven-born — not the thrall of circum- 
stances, but the victorious subduer thereof." His first, and perhaps 
greatest, critical work was upon a brother Scot — Burns. By him 
Burns received his first sympathetic interpretation. 

Again it is worthy of note that America was the first to recognize 
the value of British literary work. Through Emerson, Carlyle's works 
were published here before they were at home. At the time when 
Sartor was unpopular in England, Carlyle wrote to his wife : " Litera- 
ture still a mystery; nothing paying. On the other hand, an order 
from America to send a copy of the magazine, ' .5"^ long as there was 
anything of Carlyle's in it.' " This was the cause of Carlyle's continu- 
ing in literature. 

" Carlyle has surpassingly powerful qualities of expression, reminding 
one of the gifts of expression of the great poets — of even Shakespeare 
himself. What Emerson so admirably says of Carlyle's * devouring 
eyes, and pourtraying hand,' ' those thirsty eyes, those portrait-eating, 
portrait-painting eyes of thine, those fatal perceptions,' is thoroughly 
true." — Arnold. 

Biography and Criticism. — J. Nichol, English Men of Letters ; 
R. Garnett, Great Writers ; Carlyle, Reminiscences ; C. E. Norton, 
Correspondence of Carlyle and Emerson; D. Masson, Edinburgh 
Sketches and Memories; Macpherson, Famous Scots Series; R. H. 
Hutton, Modern Guides to Thought in Matters of Faith ; F. Harrison, 
Early Victorian Literature ; J. C. Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; Arnold, 
Addresses in America ; L. Stephen, ILours in a Library ^ Vol. III. ; 
J. J. Morley, Miscellanies, Vol. I. 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 

Macaulay had the unusual good fortune to reach at a bound the high- 
est step in the ladder of fame. The critics were disturbed because he 
did not stop to show them his passports, and they at once began to call 



NOTES: MACAULAY; NEWMAN 655 

him back, but their shrill notes were lost in the torrents of popular 
acclaim. He made his debut in the Edinburgh Revieiv with the 
famous essay on Milton, and nothing that he produced later quite 
equalled it. While he is not a great critic, he arouses interest in his 
subject, which is perhaps more important, especially with young read- 
ers, and this is the secret of his continued popularity. The contrasts 
between Carlyle, De Quincey, and Macaulay are very marked. Carlyle 
is a great poet, muscular, homely, lurid; De Quincey is a great artist, 
incisive, subtle, brilliant; Macaulay is a great reporter of affairs, 
aboundingly picturesque — "a symphony in purple and gold." His 
art was not evolved, it was cast. 

P. 515, 1. 83. mens aequa in arduis. A mind serene in difficulties. 

" Macaulay is a glorified journalist and reviewer, who brings the 
matured results of scholars to the man in the street, in a form that he 
can remember and enjoy, when he could not make use of a merely 
learned book." — Frederick Harrison. 

Biography and Criticism. — G. Trevelyan, Macaulafs Life and 
Letters; C. Morrison, English Men of Letters ; L. Stephen, Hoiirs in a 
Library, Vol. IH. ; F. Harrison, Early Victorian Literatttre ; W. Bage- 
hot. Literary Sttidies, Vol. II.; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Lit- 
erature ; Corrected Lmpressions ; E. P. Whipple, Essays and Reviews ; 
J. Morley, Miscellanies^ Vol. I. 

JOHN HENRY CARDINAL NEWMAN 

Mediaevalism attracted Scott because its action, its picturesqueness, 
invigorated the imagination; it attracted Newman because its tradi- 
tions stimulated speculation and casuistry. 

Cardinal Newman is known as the author of that hymn which 
breathes the most sublime faith, the calmest resignation, and the noblest 
sentiment of which the human soul is capable. Lead, Kindly IJght is 
one of the most inspiring poems of the Christian Church, — 

" That undisturbed song of pure concent." 

Newman's work reveals him as one of the great masters of graceful, 
scholarly, finished prose. It is individual; it has charm, and this is the 
secret of its power to interest. No writer of our time has reflected his 
mind and heart in his work as has he. He has light for the intellect, 



656 NOTES: NEWMAN; TENNYSON 

and warmth for the heart. Arnold gives the following picture of the 
great Oxford preacher : — 

" Who could resist the charm of that spiritual apparition, gliding in 
the dim afternoon light through the aisles of St. Mary's, rising into the 
pulpit, and then, in the most entrancing of voices, breaking the silence 
with words and thoughts which were a religious music — subtle, sweet, 
mournful?" 

P. 522, 1. 120. TCTpdYcovos. Four square, complete, nil admirari. 
To find nothing wonderful. 

P. 523, 11. 122-124. Felix qui, etc. Virgil, Georgics, II., 490-492: 
" Happy he who has come to know the sequence of things, and is 
thus above all fear, master of the dread march of fate, and careless of 
the wild noise of greedy Acheron." 

"The charm of Dr. Newman's style necessarily baffles description; 
as well might one seek to analyze the fragrance of a flower. It is hard 
to describe charm." ^ Augustine Birrell. 

Biography and Criticism. — Newman, Apologia pro sua Vita; 
R. H. Hutton, Cardinal Newman ; Alodern Guides to Thought in 
Matters of Faith ; R. W. Church, The Oxford Movement ; A. Birrell, Res 
Judicatcp ; Obiter Dicta ; J. C. Shairp, Aspects of Poetry ; L. E. Gates, 
Selections from Newmaji ; J. Martineau, Essays, Vol. I.; J. Jacobs, 
George Eliot, Matthew Arnold, Browning, Neivman. 

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 

Although Tennyson was from the first a master of melody who had 
a wealth of "deUcious metres and rhythmic susurrus," yet half a century 
elapsed before the simple melodies passed into the deep-throated music 
of the grand march in the Homeric blank verse. The sweet singer of 
the early years in the century became in these later years the " Voice 
of the age," — 

" Master who crown'st our immelodious days 
With flower of perfect speech." 

The simplicity, devotion, and beauty of the artist, the dignity, strength, 
and nobility of the man; the personal note so clear, so pure, so com- 
plex in its variety of tone and color and intellectual conception; the 
English atmosphere so invigorating in its power to heal and cleanse; 



NOTES: TENNYSON; THACKERAY 657 

and the nineteenth-century idea so rich and attractive in content and 
extent, — these are the things to be found in the poetry of Alfred 
Tennyson : — 

" Dow'r'd with the Doric grace, the Mantuan mien. 
With Arno's depth and Avon's golden sheen. 
Singer to whom the singing ages climb convergent." 

The student should compare the lyrics of Tennyson with those of 
Burns; the one is the literary, the other the natural song. 

"Not of the howling dervishes of song. 

Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, 

Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart ! 
Therefore to thee the laurel leaves belong. 
To thee our love and our allegiance 

For thy allegiance to the poet's art." — Longfellow. 

Biography and Criticism. — H. Tennyson, Memoir of Alfred Lord 
Tennysoti ; A. Waugh, Alfred Lord Tennyson; S. A. Brooke, Ten- 
nyson: LLis Art and Relation to Modern Life; H. Van Dyke, The 
Poetry of Tennyson; E. Dowden, Studies iti Literature ; R. H. 
Hutton, Literary Essays; G. Napier, ILonies and LLatmts of Alfred 
Tennyson ; A. T. Ritchie, Recollections of Tennysojt, Ruskin, and 
Brozvning ; F. W. Robertson, Lectures and Addresses. 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 

We have alluded to the rise of the novel in the Elizabethan period 
and its history until the time of Defoe. It then passed into the 
hands of Richardson, Fielding, Sterne, and Johnson, and in our own 
century reached its greatest perfection in Scott, Thackeray, Dickens, 
Hawthorne, and George Eliot. Of all these Thackeray is unquestion- 
ably the great master in the art of English prose. His powers were 
exercised in a greater variety of works than were those of any of his 
contemporaries, — burlesque essay, romance, biography, criticism in 
prose and verse, — and everywhere his literary touch is sure and sound. 
From authors whose works reach fifteen or more volumes we must 
select, and there can be no mistake in selecting from Thackeray 
Vanity Fair and the English LLuinorists as types of his mighty work. 
His essay (^De Finibus), On Conclusions to his novels, reveals him in a 
characteristic mood. 
2U 



658 NOTES: THACKERAY; DICKENS; BROWNING 

" Whenever you speak for yourself and speak in earnest, how magical, 
how rare, how lonely in our literature is the beauty of your sentences, 

" ' It needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.' " 

— Andrew Lang. 

Biography and Criticism. — A. Trollope, English Men of letters ; 
Merivale and Marzials, Great Writers; J. T. Fields, Yesterdays with 
Atithors ; ¥. Harrison, Early Victorian Literature ; D. ^Iqa^oxv, British 
N'ovelists ; A. Lang, Letters to Dead Authors; W. A. Raleigh, The 
Novel; G. Saintsbury, Corrected Impressions ; Nineteenth Century 
Literature. 

CHARLES DICKENS 

Some of the critics would have us believe that Dickens has had his 
day, but here the booksellers have a word. So long as Dickens is a 
delightful companion at our firesides, in whose presence children leave 
their play and listen, he need not fear the critic, for love will keep its 
own. Thackeray said that the business of humor was to awaken and 
direct our love, our pity, our kindness, our scorn for imposture, our 
tenderness for the weak, to comment on the actions and passions of 
life, to be the week-day preacher. Dickens's universal sympathy and 
his unbounded humor bring beauty, joy, and sunshine to the lowliest 
of God's creatures. His mission was to heal and cleanse. Then let 
us read and enjoy Dickens rather than discuss him. 

" He caught character, so far as it could be caught, in a glance of 
the eye, as no other Englishman probably ever yet caught it. There 
is nothing in him as the most realistic and picturesque of describers to 
equal his humor." — R. H. Huiton. 

Biography and Criticism. — W. Ward, English Men of Letters ; 
Marzials, Great Writers ; G. Saintsbury, Nineteenth Century Litera- 
ture ; A. Lang, Essays in Little ; J. T. Fields, Yesterdays with Authors ; 
R. H. Hutton, Criticisms on Contemporary Thotight and Thinkers ; 

E. P. Whipple, Literature and Life ; A. Lang, Letters to Dead Authors ; 

F. Harrison, Early Victorian Literature. 

ROBERT BROWNING 

The joyous, fearless activity of Browning, the noble aspirations of his 
intellect and the mighty passions of his heart, the steady certainty that 
God and man are one in kind, render him the most distinctly helpful 



NOTES: BROWNING ; ELIOT 659 

to those who have been vexed with the subtle speculations which have 
abounded in our scientific age. More than any poet of modern times 
he has that intellectual fearlessness which is thoroughly Greek; he 
looks unflinchingly upon all that meets him, and he apparently cares 
not for consequences. His is " a mind forever voyaging through strange 
seas of thought, alone." In many of his poems we find united the 
two great principles which lie at the basis of all his best work : one, 
which has for its end, knowledge; the other, which has for its end, 
conduct. The first is Browning's philosophy; the second Browning's 
art. There are many who delight in Browning's intricate thought, — 
pure exercise of the mind, — but we must believe that he contributed 
more to the spiritual movement of the age by his Saul, Apparent Fail- 
ure, Prospice, Abt Vogler, etc., than by all his argumentative verse. 
These are indeed veritable fountain-heads of spiritual power. 

" His best work, the work which will last when the noises are done, 
is as simple as it is sensuous and passionate; and it is entirely original, 
out of the overflowing of his heart." — S. A. Brooke. 

Biography and Criticism. — Mrs. S. Orr, Handbook to the Works of 
Robert Browning ; W. Sharp, Great Writers ; W. Bagehot, Literary 
Studies; W. J. Dawson, Makers of Modern English; E. Berdoe, 
Browning' s Message to his Times ; G. W. Cooke, Poets and Problems ; 
E.G. Stedman, Victorian Poets ; G. Saintsbury, Corrected Impressions ; 
H. Jones, Browning as a Philosophic and Religions Teacher ; H. Corson, 
Introduction to Browning ; W. J. Alexander, Introduction to Brown- 
ing; Boston Browning Society, Papers. 

GEORGE ELIOT 

Be an artist or prepare for oblivion is the stern decree of Time. No 
amount of knowledge, no critical acumen, can be substituted for that 
power of giving pleasure which we attribute as a quality of creative 
work and call beauty. George Eliot (Marian Evans) was a systematic 
thinker, a careful student, a master of human passion; but above all she 
was an artist of superb qualities and noble aims. Silas Marner is an 
exquisite study in light and shade, — in contrasts of life; Adam Bede 
is a delightful romance, spontaneous, cheerful, sweet; Romola a great 
drama, and The Mill on the Floss is a revelation of the author's deepest 
life; these are her representative works. In revealing Nature she has 



660 NOTES: ELIOT; CLOUGH 

done for the English Midlands what Scott did for the Highlands of 
Scotland. 

P. 584,1. 128. Benedicat, etc. "May Almighty God give you his 
blessing." 

"George Eliot's works are primarily works of art, and she herself is 
artist as much as she is teacher. We feel in reading these books that 
we are in the presence of a soul, and a soul which has had a history." 
— Edward Dowden. 

Biography and Criticism. — G. Cross, Life of George Eliot; O. 
Browning, Great Writers ; G. W. Cooke, George Eliot; F. Harrison, 
Early Victorian L^iterature ; R. H. Hutton, Modern Guides to Thought 
in Matters of Faith ; E, Dowden, Studies in Literature ; L. Stephen, 
Hours in a Library, Vol. II.; E. Scherer, Essays in Llnglish Litera- 
ture, trans, by Saiutsbury; J. Jacobs, George Eliot, Mattheiv Arnold^ 
Browning, Nezvman. 

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

Clough and Arnold, the apostles of culture, were both distinguished 
sons of Rugby and Oxford; both voiced the intellectual unrest caused 
by the Oxford Movement and the revelations of modern science. 
Clough's nature was that of a scholar, impressionable, but simple, 
strong, wholesome; and his search for truth was sincere and manly. 
Sincerity and manliness give a tonic quality to all he wrote. His 
poems reveal the struggle, at times agonizing, and the religious fervor 
which made his life at once sad and joyous, 

" In working out in heart and brain 
The problem of our being here." 

The sights and sounds of nature gave him ease and refreshment from 
his intellectual quest. The choice spirits whom he attracted, quite as 
much as his poetic excellence, reveal the manner of man he was. He 
inspired one of the most touching and graceful elegies in the language, 
Thyrsis. It reveals much that is intensely biographical. 

"The music of thy rustic flute 
Kept not for long its happy country tone; 

Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note 
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan." 



NOTES: C LOUGH; RUSK IN; ARNOLD 66 1 

"The massive and genial sympathy which Clough feels with the 
universal instincts of human life, alike religious and social, is the first 
marked feature that strikes us in all his poems." — R. H. HUTTON. 

Biography and Criticism. — Clough, Prose Remains ; R. H. Hut- 
ton, Essays, Vol. II.; C. Patmore, Principle in Art ; H. W. Mabie, My 
Study Fire, Vol. II.; W. Bagehot, Literary Sltidies, Vol. I.; V. D. Scud- 
der. The Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry ; G. Saintsbury, 
Nineteenth Century Literature ; J. C. Shairp, Portraits of Friends. 

JOHN RUSKIN 

Carlyle and Ruskin are the two prophets of the century, and their, 
cry is, " sursuin corda ! " Both began work as interpreters, — the one 
of literature and life, the other of nature and art, — and both gradually 
passed from critics to great preachers of social regeneration. One 
sought social reform as a basis for conduct, the other as a basis for 
beauty. Ideas of conduct and ideas of beauty comprise the whole of 
life. Ruskin's prose is often as picturesque and rhythmic as Tennyson's 
verse. He possesses the eye of the scientist, the imagination of the 
poet, the harmony of the composer, and the moral earnestness of the 
preacher. 

" The more one reads Ruskin, the more one feels inclined almost to 
let him go uncriticised, to vote him the primacy in nineteenth century 
prose by simple acclamation." — G. Saintsbury. 

Biography and Criticism. — W. G. Collingwood, Life and Works 
of John Ruskin; J. M. Mather, yi?//;? Ruskin: his Life ajid Teach- 
ings; A. T. Ritchie, Records of Teniiyson, Ruskin, and Broivning : 
A. H. Japp, Three Great Teachers ; C. Waldstein, The Work of John 
Ruskin ; V. D. Scudder, An Introduction to the Writi?igs of John Rus- 
kin ; G. Saintsbury, Corrected Lmpressions ; G. W. Cooke, Poets and 
Problems ; J. Ruskin, Prceterita. 

MATTHEW ARNOLD 

Arnold has done for literature what Ruskin did for art. By means 
of his exquisite creative work and his clear and steady discernment of 
the best that has been thought and said in the world, — in a word, by 
his study of perfection, he has enriched thought and quickened feel- 



662 NOTES: ARNOLD 

ing. His intellectual activity is as varied and unceasing as his love 
is strong and pure. His nature, genial, frank, and manly, is revealed 
in poetry of elegance and power. He teaches the gospel of Words- 
vi'orth — that we need shade in which to grow ripe, and leisure in 
which to grow wise. As a literary critic he has no superior in the art 
of revealing beauty, of stimulating enjoyment of the high and rare 
excellence in literature. His instinct for seizing the spirit of the author 
and embalming it in the amber of beautiful phrase, is as unfailing as his 
analysis of the means by which that author attained distinction in form 
is clear and sound. As a writer upon morals and politics, he is char- 
acterized by the spirit of "sweetness and light," with a purpose to 
make reason and the will of God prevail. The results of his work are 
exceedingly great. 

P. 619, 1. 70. a poetical collection. Ward's English Poets. 

"To open Arnold's poems is to escape from a heated atmosphere 
and a company not wholly free from offence, from loud-mouthed, ran- 
dom-talking men, into a well-shaded retreat which seems able to impart 
something of the coolness of falling water, something of the music of 
rustling trees." — AUGUSTINE BiRRELL. 

" With a myriad minor variations and adaptations, poetry in England, 
and therefore prose, is still what it became when Wordsworth and 
Coleridge remodelled it in the coombes of the Quantocks." — Edmund 

GOSSE. 

Biography and Criticism. — Arnold, Letters ; E. C. Stedman, Vic- 
torian Poets; R. H. Hutton, Literary Essays; Clough, Prose Re- 
mains; A.'QvcvqW, Res /udicatcE ; W. J. T>2i\\"=>0T\, Makers of Moderji 
English ; J, Burroughs, Lndoor Studies ; G. Saintsbury, Corrected I?n- 
pressions ; L. E. Gates, Selections from Arnold; J. Jacobs, George 
Eliot, Matthew Arnold, Browning.^ Newman. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS AND NOTES 



Addison, Joseph, 246, 638. 
Arnold, Matthew, 607, 661. 
Bacon, Francis, 156, 631. 
Ballads, 68, 627. 
Bible, 143, 631. 
Blake, William, 358, 644. 
Browning, Robert, 567, 658. 
Bunyan, John, 199, 634. 
Burke, Edmund, 325, 642. 
Burns, Robert, 367, 645. 
Butler, Samuel, 193, 634. 
Byron, Lord, 465, 651. 
Carlyle, Thomas, 498, 653. 
Chaucer, Geoffrey, i, 621. 
Clough, Arthur Hugh, 586, 660. 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 396, 

645- 
ColHns, William, 305, 641. 

Cowper, William, 336, 643. 

Defoe, Daniel, 224, 636. 

De Quincey, Thomas, 454, 650. 

Dickens, Charles, 554, 658- 

Dryden, John, 209, 636. 

Eliot, George (Evans, Marian), 

575. 659. 
Gibbon, Edward, 347, 644. 
Goldsmith, Oliver, 314, 642. 
Gray, Thomas, 292, 641. 



Hazlitt, William, 438, 649. 
Hooker, Richard, 105, 629. 
Hunt, Leigh, 445, 650. 
Johnson, Samuel, 283, 640, 
Jonson, Benjamin, 162, 632. 
Keats, John, 488, 653. 
Lamb, Charles, 425, 648. 
Landor, Walter Savage, 418, 648. 
Lyly, John, 40, 624. 
Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 

510, 654. 
Malory, Sir Thomas, 19, 624. 
Marlowe, Christopher, iii, 629. 
Milton, John, 173, 633. 
Newman, John Henry, 519, 655. 
Pope, Alexander, 260, 639. 
Ruskin, John, 597, 661. 
Scott, Sir Walter, 406, 647. 
Shakespeare, William, 132, 630. 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 475, 652. 
Sidney, Sir Philip, 53, 625. 
Spenser, Edmund, 90, 628. 
Swift, Jonathan, 235, 637. 
Tennyson, Alfred, 528, 656. 
Thackeray, William Makepeace, 

543. 657. 
Thomson, James, 272, 639. 
Wordsworth, WiUiam, 380, 645. 



663 



BOOKS OF GENERAL REFERENCE 

Archer, T. The Highway of Letters. 
Bascom, J. Philosophy of Efiglish Literature. 
Bates, C. L. The English Religions Drama. 
Brooke, S. A. English Literature. (Macmillan.) 
Brooke, S. A. History of Early English Literature. 
Bullen. E^iglaiicVs Helicon. 
Craik, H. English Prose. 
Earle, J. English Prose. 
Earle, J. Philosophy of the English Tongue. 
Fisher, Outlines of Mediceval and Modern History. 
Fyffe. History of Modern Europe. 
Gosse, E. Modern Literature. 
Green. Llistory of the English People. 
Hodgkins, L. M. Nineteenth Century Authors. 
Howett, W. Homes and Haunts of the British Poets. 
Jusserand, J. J. English Wayfaring Life in the Middle Ages. 
Marsh. Lectures on the English Language. 
McCarthy, J. History of Our Ozvn I'imes. 
Mitchell, D. G. English Lands, Letters, and LCings. 
Morley, H. First Sketch of English Literature. 
Morley, H. English ]Vr iters. 

Oliphant. Literary History of England, XVLLLth and XlXth Cen- 
turies. 
Pancoast, H. S. A71 Lntrodtcction to English Literature. 
Pepys, S. Diary. 

Poole. Lndex to Periodical Literature. 
Ryland. Chronological Outlines of English Literature. 
Stephen, L. English Thought in the Eighteenth Century. 
Symonds, J. A. Shakespeare'' s Predecessors iii the .English Drama. 
Taine. English Literature. 
Ten Brink, B. English Literature. 2 vols. 
Ward, T. H. English Poets. 5 vols. 

Welsh. Development of English Language and Literature. 
Winter, W. Shakespeare's England. 
Winter, W. Old Shrines and Lvy. 
Winter, W. Gray Days and Gold. 

664 



CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 

Aristotle. On the Art of Poetry. (Prickard.) 
Arnold, M. Culture and Anarchy. 
Arnold, M. Essays in Criticism. 1st and 2d Series. 
Arnold, M. Addresses i7i America. 
Bagehot, W. Literary Studies. 2 vols. 
Bayne, P. Lessons from- My ALasters. 
Birr ell, A. Obiter Dicta. 2 vols. 
Birrell, A. Res Judicatcv. 
Birrell, A. Men, Women, and Books. 

Brooke, S. A. Tennyson : His Art and Relation to Moderji Life. 
Brooke, S. A. Theology in the English Poets. 
Burroughs, J. Lndoor Studies. 
Burroughs, J. Fresh Fields. 
Burroughs, J. Birds ajid Poets. 
Caird, E. Literature and Philosophy. 
Carlyle, T. On LLeroes. 

Coleridge, S. T. Principles of Criticism. (Edited by A. J. George.) 
Cooke, G. W. Poets and Problems. 
Corson, H. Aims of Literary Study. 
Corson, H. The Voice and Spiritual E.ducation. 
Couch, A. Q. Adventures in Criticism. 
Courthope, W. J. LListory of English Poetry. 
Dawson, W. J. Alakers of Modern English. 
Dawson, G. Biographical Lectures. 
De Vere. Essays on Poetry. 
Dowden, E. Studies in Literature. 
Dowden, E. Nezo Studies in Literature. 
Dowden, E. LVanscripts and Studies. 
Emerson, R. W. Representative Men. 
Gosse, E. Questions at Issue. 
Gosse, E. Critical Kit Kats. 
Harrison. F, Choice of Books. 
Harrison, F. Early Victorian Literature. 
Horace. The Art of Poetry. (Edited by A. S. Cook.) 
Hudson, H. Essays. 

Hunt, L. IVhat is Poetry ? (Edited by A. S. Cook.) 

665 



666 CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 

Hutton, R. H. Criticisms on Contemporary Thought and Thinkers. 

Hutton, R. H. Literary Essays. 

Hutton, R. H. Modern Guides to Thought in Matters of Faith. 

Johnson, C. F, I'hree Americans and Three Englishmen. 

Jones, H. Browning as a Philosophic and Religious Teacher. 

Jonson. Timber. (Edited by F. Schelling.) 

Kingsley, C. Literary Essays. 

Lang, A. Essays in Little. 

Lang, A. Letters to Dead Authors. 

Lowell, J. R. Prose, Vol. IV. 

Mabie, \l. W. Literary Interpretation. 

Mabie, H. W. Studies in Literature. 

Masson, D. Wordszvorth, Shelley, and Keats. 

Masson, D. Edinburgh Sketches and Memories. 

Maurice, F. W. The Friendship of Books. 

Minto, W. Characteristics of English Poets. 

Minto, W. Characteristics of English Prose. 

Morley, J. Studies in Literature. 

Morris, W. Hopes and Fears for Art. 

Myers, F, W. H. Science and a Future Life. 

Myers, F. W. H. Essays. (Modern.) 

Noel, R. Essays on Poetry. 

Palgrave, Y . T. Landscape in Poetry. 

Pater, W. Appreciations. 

Patmore, C. Religio Poetce. 

Patmore, C. Principle in Art. 

Phelps, W. L. The English Romantic Move77ient. 

Robertson, F. W. Addresses and Lectures. 

Ruskin, J. Sesame and Lilies. 

Sainte-Beuve. Essays. (Edited by E. Lee.) 

Saintsbury, G. Corrected Impressions. 

Saintsbury, G. Essays in English Literature. 

Scherer, E. Essays in English Literature. 

Scudder, H. Studies in Men and Books. 

Scudder, V. D. Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry. 

Shairp, J. C. Aspects of Poetry. 

Shairp, J. C. Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. 

Shairp, J. C. Poetic Interpretatio7i of Nature. 

Shelley, P. B. Defense of Poetry. 

Sidney, P. Apologie for Poetrie. 

Stedman, E. C. Nature of Poetiy. 

Stedman, E. C. Victorian Poets. 

Stephen, L. Hours in a Library. 3 vols. 



CRITICAL AND SUGGESTIVE 66y 

Symonds, J. A. Essays Speculative and Suggestive. 2 vols. 

Taylor, H. Critical Essays. 

Thompson, W. Ethics of Literary Art. 

Van Dyke. The Poetry of Tennyson. 

Veitch. Feeling for Ahiture in Scottish Poetry.- 

Watson, W. Excursiojis in Criticism. 

Whipple, E. P. Essays and Reviews. 

Wilson, W. Mere Literattire. 

Wordsworth, W. Prefaces on Poetry. (Edited by A. J. George.) 



GLOSSARY 



a', all. 

aboon, above. 

acorded not, was not fitting. 
adoun, down. 
advowsen, control. 
aften, often, 
after, according to. 
aims, irons. 
airt, direction. 
albee, although. 
als, as. 

amaist, almost. 
amang, among. 
amblere, a horse that ambles, 
an', and. 
ance, once. 
anlaas, short knife, 
aright, favorably. 
aryve, arrival, 
ascendant, horoscope. 
as nowthe, as now. 
auld, old. 

Austyn, Saint Austyn ( Augus- 
tine). 
avaunce, to be to one's advantage. 
avaunt, to boast, 
aventure, adventure. 
ay, ever. 
ayont, beyond. 

baar, bore, 
bairns, children. 
baren, carried. 
barres, ornaments. 



basnet, helmet. 
Bassoes, Pashas. 
bauld, shoulder. 
bedes, beads, 
been, to be. 

beggestere, beggarwoman. 
bell, flower. 
belyve, soon. 
berd, beard, 
berye, berry, 
bet, better. 
beth, are. 
bield, shelter. 
biek, bask. 
bifil, befell. 
bifoon, before. 
biggit, builded. 
biginne, to begin, 
birkie, spirited fellow, 
bisette, beset. 
biside, near to. 
bismotered, besmutted. 
bisy, busy. 
bit, biddeth. 

blankmanger, a fricassee of ca- 
pon, 
blaws, blows. 
bogles, spirits. 
boille, to boil. 
bonnie, beautiful, 
boold, bold. 
boote, remedy. 
bord, table. 
bracer, bowman's arm guard. 



668 



GLOSSARY 



669 



brae, slope of hill. 

braw, handsome. 

bree, broth. * 

breed, bread. 

breem, bream, a kind of fish, 

Britaigne, Brittany. 

brood, broad. 

burgeys, burgess. 

burn, stream. 

burnie, small stream. 

burn-brae, stream at foot of hill. 

busk, adorn. 

ca', to drive. 

ca', call. 

caaf, law cases. 

calivers, muskets. 

canna, cannot. 

cannie, carefully. 

carf, carved. 

carpe, to chatter. 

Cartage, Carthage. 

catel, property. 

cauld, cold. 

ceint, girdle. 

celle, religious house. 

certes, surely. 

certeyn, certainly. 

Champioun, combatant. 

chaped, capped. 

chapeleyne, chaplain. 

chapman, merchant. 

charitable, kind. 

chasted, subdued. 

chaunterie, an endowment for 
chanting masses. 

chevyssaunce, borrowing trans- 
actions; 

chiknes, chickens. 

chows, chews. 

chyvachie, cavalry expedition. 

clad, clothed. 



claes, clothes. 

cleere, clearly. 

clenches, puns. 

clennesse, cleanness. 

cleped, called. 

clerk, scholar, 

cloke, cloak. 

cloysterer, inmate of a cloister. 

cofre, money box. 

concent, harmony. 

COndicioun, condition. 

conscience, sympathy. 

consort, society. 

contree, country. 

convertite, a convert. 

cood, cud. 

COOf, fool. 

corage, courage. 

cote, coat. 

coude, knew, 

countour, auditor of accounts. 

countrefete, to imitate. 

courtepy, short cloak. 

couth, could. 

crack, to joke. 

cracknelles, hard biscuit. 

cramasie, crimson cloth. 

craw, crow. 

cristen. Christian. 

crulle, curly. 

curch, kerchief. 

custom, to enter. 

daliaunce, gossip. 

daunce, olde, old game or custom. 

daungerous, imperious. 

dayesye, daisy. 

deed, dead. 

deef, deaf. 

deelen with, to have to do with. 

dees, dice. 

delyvere, active. 



670 



GLOSSARY 



Dertemouthe, Dartmouth, a sea- 
port of England. 
devyse, speak of. 
deyntee, dainty. 
deyntees, dainties. 
deys, dais. 

dighted, strove to stanch, 
digne, worthy. 
dispence, expense. 
dole, sorrow. 
doon, pi., do. 
dorste, durst. 

doute, out of, without doubt. 
drawe, drawn. 
drogte, drought. 
dronken, pi., drank, 
dyere, dyer. 
dyvyne, divine. 

echon, each one. 
ecstasy, emotion. 
e'e, eye. 
eek, also. 
een, pi., eyes. 
embrouded, embroidered. 
endite, to write. 
ensample, example, 
er, ere. 

escapes, mistakes. 
eschaunge, exchange, 
esed, entertained, 
esily, easily. 
estaat, state. 
estat, estate. 
estatlich, dignified, 
esy, easy. 
evene, moderate. 
everichon, every one. 
every deel, every part, 
eveychon, every one. 
eydent, diligent. 
eyen, pi., eyes. 



fa', fall. 

f acultee, faculty, estimate of him- 
self. 

fader, father. 

faire langage, elegant small talk. 

faire, fairly. 

fairness, fairness of life. 

faldyng, coarse cloth. 

farsed, crammed. 

faught, fought. 

faulding, folding. 

faut, fault. 

feare, frighten. 

fee symple, the absolute posses- 
sion of an estate. 

felawe, associate. 

fell, bitterly. 

fer, for. 

feme = terrene, distant. 

ferre, farther. 

ferthing, farthing. 

festne, to fasten. 

fetisly, elegantly. 

fetys, neatly made. 

fil, fell. 

fithele, fiddle. 

Flaundyssh, Flemish. 

fleet, to float. 

fley'd, frighted. 

flitcherin', fluttering. 

floytynge, fluting. 

fond, foolish. 

foo, foe. 

footmantel, leggings, stretching 
from hips down over boots. 

for, in spite of, against. 

forehammers, sledgehammers. 

foment, in the face of. 

forneys, furnace. 

for sothe, forsooth. 

forster, forester. 

forthink, repent of. 



GLOSSARY 



671 



forward, agreement, 
fother, cartload, 
fowel, fowl. 
frae, from. 
fraught, frightened. 
fro, from. 
fu, full. 
furs, furrows. 

gae, go. 
gaed, went. 

gaf, gave. 

galyngale, sweet cypress root. 

gang, to go. 

garr'd, made. 

gat toothed, with teeth far apart. 

gauded, having the large beads 

(gaudies) in the rosary. 
geere, clothing. 
geldhalle, guildhall. 
gentil, well-bred. 
gere, gear. 
geve, to give. 

ghaist, ghost. 
gie, give. 
gipser, pouch. 

girdel, girdle. 

goon, to go. 

governaunce, management of 
business. 

gowd, gold. 

grace, favor. 

gree, prize. 

greet, great. 

Grete See, the Mediterranean. 

grys, gray fur. 

guid, good. 

gurly, stormy. 

gynglen, to jingle. 

gypon, short cassock. 

ha', hall. 

haberdasshere, a seller of hats. 



habergeon, coat of mail. 

hae, have. 

haffet locks, locks about the 

temples. 
hafQins, partly. 
hained, spared. 
halesome, wholesome. 
hallan, a partition in a cottage. 
half-fou, an eighth of a peck. 
halwes, saints. 
happily, haply. 
hardily, boldly. 
hardy, daring. 
Haribee, place of execution at 

Carlisle. 
harneised, equipt. 
haunt, skill. 
haut, high. 

havenes, havens, 

hawkie, a cow with a white face. 

heeld, held. 

heeng, hung. 

heeth, heath. 

heigh, high (nose). 

hem, them. 

hente, to seize. 

herberwe, harbor. 

herry, spoil. 

hethenesse, heathen land. 

hewe, hue. 

hight, was called. 

him, for himself. 

hipes, hips. 

histie, dry. 

holden, regarded. 

holpen, helped. 

holt, wood. 

honeste, becoming. 

hoot, hot. 

hoote, hotly. 

hors, horses. 

horsely, horse-like. 



6']2 



GLOSSARY 



hostelrye, inn. 

hostiler, innkeeper. 

houndes, dogs. 

houres, hours (astrological). 

hussyfskip, housekeeping. 

Hulle, Hull. 

hye, high. 

hyer hond, advantage, upper 

hand. 
hym-selven, himself. 

i', in. 

ilke, same. 

infect, rendered invalid. 

ingle, the fireside. 

inne, in. 

In principio, in the beginning. 

intil, into. 

jauk, joke. 
juste, to joust. 
justs, tournaments. 

kan, knows. 

kebbuck, cheese. 

keepe, care. 

ken, know. 

kepe, to take care of. 

kept, guarded. 

koude, could, knew. ^ 

kowthe, known. 

kye, cows. 

laas, lace. 

lady, gen., lady's. 

lafte, left, failed. 

lave, the rest. 

lawing, reckoning. 

lazar, leper. 

lear, lore. 

leed, a caldron, coffer. 

leet, let. 

lenger, longer. 



lengthe, height. 

leste, pleasure. 

letuaries, electuaries. 

levere, rather, liefer. 

lewed, ignorant. 

licenciat, one licensed to hear 
confessions. 

licht, light. 

licour, liquor. 

lightly, set light by. 

lint, flax. 

lipsed, hsped. 

liste, it pleaseth. 

lite, little. 

lodemenage, pilotage. 

lo'e, love. 

lokkes, hair. 

lond, land. 

loore, lore. 

lore, teaching. 

loude, loudly. 

lough estat, humble estate. 

love dayes, days for settling dis- 
putes. 

love knotte, indissoluble union. 

low, blaze. 

luce, a full-grown pike. 

lust, pleasure. 

lyart, gray. 

lyk, like. 

lymytour, one licensed to beg 
within certain limits. 

lyned, lined. 

lyveree, livery. 

maad, made. 
made, caused. 
maistrie, mastery, 
main, rent. 
make, companion. 
make a thing, draw up a docu- 
ment. 



GLOSSARY 



673 



maner, manner. 
many oon, many a one. 
Martinmas, the eleventh of No- 
vember. 
marybones, marrowbones. 
maun, must. 
mayde, maid. 

medlee cote, coat of mixed stuff. 
meede, meadow. 
meikle, as much, great, 
men, man. 
merye, pleasant. 
meschief, trouble. 
mesurable, moderate. 
mete, food. 
monie, many. 
moone, moon. 
mormal, gangrene. 
morrwe, morrow. 
mortreux, a stew. 
motteleye, motley. 
muche and lite, great and small. 
muchel, a great deal. 
murye, merry. 
muwe, mew, coop. 

na', not. 
nae, no. 

na mo, no more. 
namoore, no more. 
nas = ne was, was not, 
nat, not. 

nathelees, nevertheless. 
ne, nor, not. 
newe, newly. 
noght, not. 

nones, for the, for the nonce, 
nonys, for the, for the nonce, 
noot = ne woot, know not. 
norissyng, nutritious. 
not-heed, -closely shaved head. 
nowher, nowhere. 
2X 



nowthe, now. 
nyghtertale, night time. 

0'. of. 

of, some (Fr. de and des). 

of, by. 

of, off. 

0f6.ce, position (secular). 

offryng, voluntary contribution 
made to a priest. 

Offrynge, offering (at the altar). 

oft-sithes, ofttimes. 

olde daunce, old game. 

oon, one (and the same). 

OOth, oath. 

ordres foure, four orders, Do- 
minicans, Carmelites, Francis- 
cans, and Augustinians. 

outrely, utterly. 

outridere, outrider. 

overal, everywhere. 

overeste, uppermost. 

overhaile, draw over. 

owher, anywhere. 

pace, subj., go on. 
pace, to pass. 
pacient, patient. 
pacient, enduring. 
painture, painting. 
parfit, perfect. 
parisshens, parishioners. 
parritch, oatmeal gruel, 
partrich, partridge. 
parvys, church porch. 
passed, surpassed. 
patente, letter patent. 
peire, pair. 

pers, stuff of sky blue color, 
persoun, parson, priest. 
peyned hire, took pains. 
pight, pitched. 



6/4 



GLOSSARY 



pituance, portion of food. 

plentevous, plenteous, 

pleyn, full. 

pleyn, adv., fully. 

pocock, peacock. 

pommel, hilt of sword. 

poraille, fourfold. 

Portugals, Portuguese gold coins. 

post, pillar. 

poudre-marchant, flavoring pow- 
der. 

poure, to pore. 

poure = povre, poor. 

poynaunt, high seasoned, pun- 
gent. 

preye, to pray. 

prikasour, hard rider. 

priking, fast riding. 

pris, prize. 

prys, price. 

pulled, plucked. 

purchas, acquisition. 

purtreye, to draw. 

purvey, provide. 

pye, pie. 

pynched, closely pleated. 

pynchen at, find fault with. 

quo, saith. 

rage, romp. 

raughte, reached. 

recchelees, reckless. 

reduce, repair. 

redy, ready. 

reed, red. 

regiment, rule. 

reiver, robber. 

rente, income. 

resons, opinions. 

reule, rule. 

reysed, done military service. 

rin, run. 



rood, rode. 
row, rough. 

sae, so. 

sair, sore, hard. 

sangwyn, red. 

saugh, saw. 

sautrie, psaltery. 

scambled, gathered. 

scathe, misfortune, a pity. 

scaud, scald. 

science, legal knowledge. 

scole, school, style. 

scoler, scholar. 

scoleye, to go to school. 

seege, siege. 

seeke, sick. 

semely, properly, seemly. 

semycope, short ecclesiastical 

cloak. 
sendal, fine silk. 
sendel, linen. 
seneschal, steward, 
sesons, seasons. 
sethe, to seethe. 
sex, sect. 

seyde, subj., would say. 
seyen, to say. 
shake, shaken. 
shaply, suitable. 
sheeldes, French crowns. 
shipman, merchant sailor. 
sho, shoe. 
sholde, should. 
shoon, shone. 
shortly, briefly. 
shyne, shin. 
siege, seat, 
sike, sick. 
sikerly, surely, 
sin, since. 
sin, sun. 



GLOSSARY 



675 



skeely, skilful. 

sleep, slept. 

smerte, smartly. 

smerte, pain. 

smoot, smote. 

snewed, abomided. 

snybben, to snub. 

solempne, sportive. 

solempnely, pompously. 

som-del, somewhat. 

somer, summer. 

somtyme, at one time. 

sondry, several. 

soong, sang. 

soore, sorely. 

soote, sweet. 

sooth, truth. 

soothly, truly. 

sope in wyn, sop in wine, bread 

dipped in wine. 
soper, supper. 
souple, supple. 
sownynge, importing. 
spait, flood. 
space, time. 

speke, of, to, in respect to. 
speken, for, to, in respect to. 
spiced, scrupulous. 
spier, to ask for. 
splent, armor, 
spores, spurs. 

stacher, walk with difficulty. 
stane, stone. 
stear, stir. 
stemed, shone. 
stepe, bright. 
sterres, stars, 
stoor, stock. 
stoure, dust. 
streit, strict. 
streite, closely. 
strem, stream. 



stronde, shore, strand. 
stuwe, stew, fishpond. 
substaunce, means. 
suf&saunce, sufficiency. 
sugh, a rushing sound. 
swich, such, 
swynk, toil. 
swynken, to toil. 
synynge, singing. 

tabard, a herald's coat of arms. 
table dormant, sideboard. 
taffata, silk stuff". 
takel, arrows. 

tale, reckoning. ' 

tapicer, upholsterer. 
tappestere, barmaid. 
targe, target, shield. 
teche, to teach. 
tell, to count. 
tentie, heedful. 
termes, court terms (?). 
that, the. 
theekit, thatched. 
thencrees, the increase. 
ther as, where that. 
thilke, that same. 
thoughte, it seemed. 
thries, thrice. 
thriftily, becomingly. 
thynketh, it seems. 
tickle, unsteady. 
to drive, to pass. 
to, too. 

tomorn, tomorrow. 
towmond, a twelvemonth, 
tretys, shapely. 
trouthe, fidelity, truth, 
trysted, hour for love meeting. 
tydes, tides. 

typet, friar's hood or zo\\\ used 
as a pocket. 



676 



GLOSSARY 



unco, very. 
uncos, strange tales. 
undertake, venture to say. 
undertake, to conduct an enter- 
prise. 
unknowe, unknown. 
unnethes, scarcely. 

vavasour, landholder. 
venerie, hunting. 
verray, very, true, 
vertu, virtue, power. 
vertuous, efficient. 
viage, voyage, 
vigilies, vigils. 
villynye, villainy. 
vitaille, provisions. 
vouche-saut, to vouchsafe. 

wa', wall. 

wad, would. 

wails, chooses. 

waited after, watched for. 

waly, a cry of lamentation. 

wan, won. 

wantowne, wanton. 

war, aware. 

wastel breed, cake bread. 

weams, blotches. 

webbe, weaver. 

wee, little. 

weel, well. 

ween, think. 

welked, withered, waned. 

were, to wear. 

werre, war. 

what, why. 

whelp, dog. 

wi, with. 

wist, pret., knew. 

wit, to know. 

withholde, withheld, took it easy. 

withouten, outside of. 



wo, woful. 

wol, will. 

wolde, would, wished. 

wonder, wondrously. 

wonderly, wonderfully. 

wone, wont. 

wons, dwells. 

wonynge, dwelHng. 

wood, mad. 

Woodhouselee, the house of Buc 

cleuch on the Border. 
woot, know, 
write, written. 
wroghte, wrought. 
wrooth, angry, wroth. 
wydwe, widow. 
wympul, a nun's head and neck 

cloth, wimple. 

y, a relic of Anglo-Saxon ge, 

sign of the past participle, 
y-blent, blended. 
y-bore, borne, 
y-cleped, called, 
yeddynges, songs. 
yeman, yeoman. 
yemanly, yeomanly. 
yerde, yard. 
y-falle, fallen. 
y-go, gone. 
y-knowe, known. 
yont, beyond. 
younkers, young ones, 
yow, yourself. 
yowes, ewes. 
y-purfiled, trimmed, 
y-ronne, run. 
y-shr5rve, shriven,, 
y-taught, taught, 
y-teyd, tied. 
y-wrought, wrought. 
y-wympled, wimpled. 



A HISTORY 

OF 



EARLY ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Being the History of English Poetry from its Beginnings 
to the Accession of King Alfred. 



REV. STOPFORD A. BROOKE. 

WITH MAPS. 

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University of Edinburgh. 

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